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HAYWOOD, THE OLD HOME OF JUDGE GARNETT ANDREWS,
ERECTED IN 1794 OR 1795 . . . .376

THE WAR-TIME JOURNAL OF A
GEORGIA GIRL

INTRODUCTION

To edit oneself after the
lapse of nearly half a century
is like taking an appeal from Philip drunk to Philip
sober. The changes of thought and feeling between the
middle of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth
century are so great that the impulsive young
person who penned the following record and the white-haired
woman who edits it, are no more the same than
were Philip drunk with the wine of youth and passion
and Philip sobered by the lessons of age and experience.
The author's lot was cast amid the tempest and
fury of war, and if her utterances are sometimes out
of accord with the spirit of our own happier time, it
is because she belonged to an era which, though
but of yesterday, as men count the ages of history, is
separated from our own by a social and intellectual
chasm as broad almost as the lapse of a thousand
years. In the lifetime of a single generation the people
of the South have been called upon to pass through
changes that the rest of the world has taken centuries
to accomplish. The distance between the armor-clad

knight at Acre and the "embattled farmers" at Lexington
is hardly greater than that between the feudal
aristocracy which dominated Southern sentiment in
1860, and the commercial plutocracy that rules over
the destinies of the nation to-day.

Never was there an aristocracy so compact, so
united, so powerful. Out of a population of some
9,000,000 whites that peopled the Southern States,
according to the census of 1850, only about 300,000
were actual slaveholders. Less than 3,000 of these -
men owning, say, over 100 negroes each, constituted
the great planter class, who, with a small proportion
of professional and business men affiliated with them
in culture and sympathies, dominated Southern sentiment
and for years dictated the policy of the nation.
The more prominent families all over the country
knew each other by reputation, if not by actual contact,
and to be a member of the privileged few in one community
was an ex-officio title to membership in all.
To use a modern phrase, we were intensely "class
conscious" and this brought about a solidarity of
feeling and sentiment almost comparable to that created
by family ties. Narrow and provincial we may
have been, in some respects, but take it all in all, it is
doubtful whether the world has ever produced a state
of society more rich in all the resources for a thoroughly
wholesome, happy, and joyous life than existed
among the privileged "4,000" under the peculiar
civilization of the Old South - a civilization which has

served its purpose in the evolution of the race and
passed away forever. So completely has it vanished
that the very language in which we used to express
ourselves is becoming obsolete. Many of our household
words, among them a name scarcely less dear
than "mother," are a dead language. Others have a
strangely archaic sound to modern ears. When the
diary was written, women were still regarded as "females,"
and it was even permissible to have a "female
acquaintance," or a "male friend," when distinction
of sex was necessary, without being relegated forthwith
to the ranks of the ignobile vulgus. The words
"lady" and "gentleman" had not yet been brought
into disrepute, and strangest of all, to modern ears,
the word "rebel," now so bitterly resented as casting
a stigma on the Southern cause, is used throughout
the diary as a term of pride and affectionate endearment.

It is for the sake of the light it throws on the inner
life of this unique society at the period of its dissolution
- a period so momentous in the history of our
country - that this contemporaneous record from the
pen of a young woman in private life, is given to the
public. The uncompromising attitude of the writer's
father against secession removed him, of course, from
all participation in the political and official life of the
Confederacy, and so this volume can lay claim to none
of the dignity which attaches to the utterances of one
narrating events "quorum párs magna fui." But for

this reason its testimony will, perhaps, be of more
value to the student of social conditions than if it dealt
with matters pertaining more exclusively to the domain
of history. The experiences recounted are such as
might have come at that time, to any woman of good
family and social position; the feelings, beliefs, and
prejudices expressed reflect the general sentiment of
the Southern people of that generation, and this is my
apology for offering them to the public. As an informal
contemporaneous record, written with absolutely
no thought of ever meeting other eyes than those
of the author, the present volume can claim at least the
merit of that unpremeditated realism which is more
valuable as a picture of life than detailed statistics of
battles and sieges. The chief object of the writer in
keeping a diary was to cultivate ease of style by daily
exercise in rapid composition, and, incidentally, to
preserve a record of personal experiences for her own
convenience. This practice was kept up with more or
less regularity for about ten years, but the bulk of the
matter so produced was destroyed at various times in
those periodical fits of disgust and self-abasement that
come to every keeper of an honest diary in saner
moments. The present volume was rescued from a
similar fate by the intercession of a relative, who suggested
that the period dealt with was one of such
transcendent interest, embracing the last months of
the war and the equally stormy times immediately following,
that the record of it ought to be preserved

along with our other war relics, as a family heirloom.
So little importance did the writer attach to the document
even then, that the only revision made in changing
it from a personal to a family history, was to tear
out bodily whole paragraphs, and even pages, that
were considered too personal for other eyes than her
own. In this way the manuscript was mutilated, in
some places, beyond recovery. The frequent hiatuses
caused by these elisions are marked in the body of the
work by the usual signs of ellipsis.

The original manuscript was written in an old day-book
fished out of some forgotten corner during the
war, when writing paper was as scarce as banknotes,
and almost as dear, if measured in Confederate money.
The pale, home-made ink, never too distinct, at best, is
faded after nearly fifty years, to a light ocher, but
little darker than the age-yellowed paper on which it
was inscribed. Space was economized and paper
saved by writing between the closely-ruled lines, and
in a hand so small and cramped as to be often illegible,
without the aid of a lens. The manuscript suffered
many vicissitudes, the sheets having been torn from
the covers and crumpled into the smallest possible space
for better concealment in times of emergency.

As a discourager of self-conceit there is nothing like
an old diary, and I suppose no one ever knows what
a full-blown idiot he or she is capable of being, who
has not kept such a living record against himself. This
being the case, the gray-haired editor may be pardoned

a natural averseness to the publication of anything
that would too emphatically "write me down an ass"
- to borrow from our friend Dogberry - though I
fear that in some of the matter retained in the
interest of truth, I have come perilously near to that
alternative.

But while the "blue line" has been freely used, as
was indispensable in an intimate private chronicle of
this sort, it has not been allowed to interfere in any
way with the fidelity of the narrative. Matter strictly
personal to the writer - tiresome reflections, silly flirtations,
and the like - has been omitted, and thoughtless
criticisms and other expressions that might wound the
feelings of persons now living, have been left out or
toned down. Connectives, or other words are supplied
where necessary for clearness; where more particular
information is called for, it is given in parentheses,
or in the explanatory notes at the heads of the
chapters. Even the natural temptation to correct an
occasional lapse into local barbarisms, such as "like"
for "as," "don't" for "doesn't," or the still more
unpardonable offense of applying the terms "male"
and "female" to objects of their respective genders,
has been resisted for fear of altering the spirit of the
narrative by too much tampering with the letter. For
the same reason certain palpable errors and misstatements,
unless of sufficient importance to warrant a
note, have been left unchanged - for instance, the
absurd classing of B. F. Butler with General Sherman

as a degenerate West Pointer, or the confusion between
fuit Ilium and ubi Troja fuit that resulted in
the misquotation on page 190. For my "small Latin,"
I have no excuse to offer except that I had never been
a school teacher then, and could enjoy the bliss of ignorance
without a blush. As to the implied reflection
on West Point, I am not sure whether I knew any
better at the time, or not. Probably I did, as I lived
in a well-informed circle, but my excited brain was so
occupied at the moment with thoughts of the general
depravity of those dreadful Yankees, that there was
not room for another idea in it.

Throughout the work none but real names are employed,
with the single exception noted on page 105.
In extenuation of this gentleman's bibulous propensities,
it must be remembered that such practices were
much more common in those days than now, and were
regarded much more leniently. In fact, I have been
both surprised and shocked in reading over this story
of a bygone generation, to see how prevalent was the
use of wines. and other alcoholic liquors, and how
lightly an occasional over-indulgence was regarded.
In this respect there can be no doubt that the world
has changed greatly for the better. When "gentlemen,"
as we were not afraid to call our men guests
in those days, were staying in the house, it was a common
courtesy to place a bottle of wine, or brandy, or
both, with the proper adjuncts, in the room of each
guest, so that he might help himself to a "night-cap"

on going to bed, or an "eye-opener" before getting
up in the morning. It must also be taken into account
that at this particular time men everywhere were
ruined, desperate, their occupation gone, their future
without hope, the present without resources, so that
they were ready to catch at any means for diverting
their thoughts from the ruin that enveloped them.
The same may be said of the thoughtless gayety among
the young people during the dark days preceding the
close; it was a case of "eat, drink, and be merry, for
to-morrow we die."

In the desire to avoid as far as possible any unnecessary
tampering with the original manuscript, passages
expressive of the animosities of the time, which the
author would be glad to blot out forever, have been
allowed to stand unaltered - not as representing the
present feeling of the writer or her people, but because
they do represent our feelings forty years ago, and to
suppress them entirely, would be to falsify the record.
While recognizing the bad taste of many of these
utterances, which "Philip sober" would now be the
first to repudiate, it must be remembered that he has
no right to speak for "Philip drunk," or to read his
own present feelings into the mind of his predecessor.
The diary was written in a time of storm and tempest,
of bitter hatreds and fierce animosities, and its pages
are so saturated with the spirit of the time, that to
attempt to banish it would be like giving the play of
Hamlet without the title-role. It does not pretend to

give the calm reflections of a philosopher looking back
dispassionately upon the storms of his youth, but the
passionate utterances of stormy youth itself. It is in
no sense a history, but a mere series of crude pen-sketches,
faulty, inaccurate, and out of perspective, it
may be, but still a true picture of things as the writer
saw them. It makes no claim to impartiality; on the
contrary, the author frankly admits that it is violently
and often absurdly partisan - and it could not well
have been otherwise under the circumstances. Coming
from a heart ablaze with the passionate resentment
of a people smarting under the humiliation
of defeat, it was inevitable that along with the just
indignation at wrongs which ought never to have been
committed, there should have crept in many intemperate
and indiscriminate denunciations of acts which
the writer did not understand, to say nothing of sophomorical
vaporings calculated now only to excite a smile.
Such expressions, however, are not to be taken seriously
at the present day, but are rather to be regarded
as a sort of fossil curiosities that have the same value
in throwing light on the psychology of the period to
which they belong as the relics preserved in our
geological museums have in illustrating the physical
life of the past. Revolutions never take place when
people are cool-headed or in a serene frame of mind,
and it would be as dishonest as it is foolish to deny
that such bitternesses ever existed. The better way
is to cast them behind us and thank the powers of the

universe that they exist no longer. I cannot better
express this feeling than in the words of an old Confederate
soldier at Petersburg, Va., where he had gone
with a number of his comrades who had been attending
the great reunion at Richmond, to visit the scene of
their last struggles under "Marse Robert." They
were standing looking down into the Crater, that awful
pit of death, lined now with daisies and buttercups,
and fragrant with the breath of spring. Tall pines,
whose lusty young roots had fed on the hearts of dead
men, were waving softly overhead, and nature everywhere
had covered up the scars of war with the mantle
of smiling peace. I paused, too, to watch them, and
we all stood there awed into silence, till at last an old
battle-scarred hero from one of the wiregrass counties
way down in Georgia, suddenly raised his hands to
heaven, and said in a voice that trembled with emotion:
"Thar's three hundred dead Yankees buried
here under our feet. I helped to put 'em thar, but so
help me God, I hope the like 'll never be done in this
country again. Slavery's gone and the war's over
now, thank God for both! We are all brothers once
more, and I can feel for them layin' down thar just
the same as fur our own."

That is the sentiment of the new South and of the
few of us who survive from the old. We look back
with loving memory upon our past, as we look upon
the grave of the beloved dead whom we mourn but
would not recall. We glorify the men and the memories

of those days and would have the coming generations
draw inspiration from them. We teach the children
of the South to honor and revere the civilization
of their fathers, which we believe has perished not
because it was evil or vicious in itself, but because, like
a good and useful man who has lived out his allotted
time and gone the way of all the earth, it too has
served its turn and must now lie in the grave of the
dead past. The Old South, with its stately feudal
régime, was not the monstrosity that some would have
us believe, but merely a case of belated survival, like
those giant sequoias of the Pacific slope that have
lingered on from age to age, and are now left standing
alone in a changed world. Like every civilization that
has yet been known since the primitive patriarchal
stage, it was framed in the interest of a ruling class;
and as has always been, and always will be the case
until mankind shall have become wise enough to evolve
a civilization based on the interests of all, it was
doomed to pass away whenever changed conditions
transferred to another class the economic advantage
that is the basis of all power. It had outlived its day
of usefulness and was an anachronism in the end of
the nineteenth century - the last representative of an
economic system that had served the purposes of the
race since the days when man first emerged from his
prehuman state until the rise of the modern industrial
system made wage slavery a more efficient agent of
production than chattel slavery.

It is as unfair to lay all the onus of that institution
on the Southern States of America as it would be to
charge the Roman Catholic Church with the odium of
all the religious persecutions of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. The spirit of intolerance was
in the air; everybody persecuted that got the chance
even the saints of Plymouth Rock, and the Catholics
did the lion's share only because there were more of
them to do it, and they had more power than our
Protestant forefathers.

In like manner, the spirit of chattel slavery was in
the race, possibly from its prehuman stage, and
through all the hundreds of thousands of years that it
has been painfully traveling from that humble beginning
toward the still far-off goal of the superhuman,
not one branch of it has ever awakened to a sense of
the moral obliquity of the practice till its industrial
condition had reached a stage in which that system
was less profitable than wage slavery. Then, as the
ethical sentiments are prone to follow closely the line
of economic necessity, the conscience of those nations
which had adopted the new industrialism began to
awaken to a perception of the immorality of chattel
slavery. Our Southern States, being still in the agricultural
stage, on account of our practical monopoly of
the world's chief textile staple, were the last of the
great civilized nations to find chattel slavery less
profitable than wage slavery, and hence the "great
moral crusade" of the North against the perverse and

unregenerate South. It was a pure case of economic
determinism, which means that our great moral conflict
reduces itself, in the last analysis, to a question
of dollars and cents, though the real issue was so
obscured by other considerations that we of the South
honestly believe to this day that we were fighting for
States Rights, while the North is equally honest in
the conviction that it was engaged in a magnanimous
struggle to free the slave.

It is only fair to explain here that the action of the
principle of economic determinism does not imply by
any means that the people affected by it are necessarily
insincere or hypocritical. As enunicated by Karl
Marx, under the cumbrous and misleading title of "the
materialistic interpretation of history," it means simply
that the economic factor plays the same part in the
social evolution of the race that natural selection and
the survival of the fittest are supposed to play in its
physical evolution. The influence of this factor is
generally so subtle and indirect that we are totally
unconscious of it. If I may be pardoned an illustration
from my own experience, I remember perfectly
well when I myself honestly and conscientiously believed
the institution of slavery to be as just and sacred
as I now hold it to be the reverse. It was according
to the Bible, and to question it was impious and
savored of "infidelity." Most of my contemporaries
would probably give a similar experience. Not one of
us now but would look upon a return to slavery with

horror, and yet not one of us probably is conscious of
ever having been influenced by the economic factor!

The truth of the matter is that the transition from
chattel to wage slavery was the next step forward in
the evolution of the race, just as the transition from
wage slavery to free and independent labor will be the
next. Some of us, who see our own economic advantage
more or less clearly in this transformation,
and others who do not see it so clearly as they see the
evils of the present system, are working for the change
with the zeal of religious enthusiasts, while the capitalists
and their retainers are fighting against it with
the desperation of the old Southern slaveholder against
the abolitionist. But here, in justice to the Southerner,
the comparison must end. He fought a losing
battle, but he fought it honestly and bravely, in the
open - not by secret fraud and cunning. His cause
was doomed from the first by a law as inexorable as
the one pronounced by the fates against Troy, but he
fought with a valor and heroism that have made a
lost cause forever glorious. He saw the civil fabric
his fathers had reared go down in a mighty cataclysm
of blood and fire, a tragedy for all the ages - but better
so than to have perished by slow decay through ages
of sloth and rottenness, as so many other great civilizations
of history have done, leaving only a debased and
degenerate race behind them. It was a mediæval civilization,
out of accord with the modern tenor of our
time, and it had to go; but if it stood for some outworn

customs that should rightly be sent to the dust
heap, it stood for some things, also, that the world can
ill afford to lose. It stood for gentle courtesy, for
knightly honor, for generous hospitality; it stood for
fair and honest dealing of man with man in the common
business of life, for lofty scorn of cunning greed
and ill-gotten gain through fraud and deception of
our fellowmen - lessons which the founders of our
New South would do well to lay to heart.

And now I have just a word to say on a personal
matter - a solemn amende to make to the memory of
my dear father, to whose unflinching devotion to the
Union these pages will bear ample testimony. While
I have never been able to bring myself to repent of
having sided with my own people, I have repented in
sackcloth and ashes for the perverse and rebellious
spirit so often manifested against him. How it
was that the influence of such a parent, whom we all
loved and honored, should have failed to convert his
own children to his way of thinking, I do not myself
understand, unless it was the contagion of the general
enthusiasm around us. Youth is impulsive, and prone
to run with the crowd. We caught the infection of
the war spirit in the air and never stopped to reason
or to think. And then, there were our soldier boys.
With my three brothers in the army, and that glorious
record of Lee and his men in Virginia, how was it
possible not to throw oneself heart and soul into the
cause for which they were fighting so gallantly? And

when the bitter end came, it is not to be wondered at
if our resentment against those who had brought all
these humiliations and disasters upon us should flame
up fiercer than ever. In the expression of these feelings
we sometimes forgot the respect due to our
father's opinions and brought on scenes that were not
conducive to the peace of the family. These lapses
were generally followed by fits of repentance on the
part of the offender, but as they led to no permanent
amendment of our ways, I am afraid, that first and
last, we made the old gentleman's life a burden to
him. In looking back over the sufferings and disappointments
of those dreadful years the most pathetic
figure that presents itself to my memory is that of my
dear old father, standing unmoved by all the clamor
of the times and the waywardness of his children, in
his devotion to the great republic that his father had
fought for at Yorktown. I can see now, what I could
not realize then, that the Union men in the South - the
honest ones, I mean, like my father - sacrificed even
more for their cause than we of the other side did for
ours. These men are not to be confounded with the
scalawags and traitors who joined the carpet-baggers
in plundering their country. They were gentlemen, and
most of them slaveholders, who stood by the Union,
not because they were in any sense Northern sympathizers,
but because they saw in division death for the
South, and believed that in saving her to the Union
they were saving her to herself. They suffered not

only the material losses of the war, but the odium their
opinions excited; and worst of all, the blank disillusionment
that must have come to them when they saw
their beloved Union restored only to bring about the
riot and shame of Reconstruction. My father died
before the horrors of that period had passed away;
before the strife and hatred he so bitterly deplored
had begun to subside; before he could have the satisfaction
of seeing his grandson fighting under the old
flag that his father had followed and that his sons had
repudiated. Which of us was right? which was
wrong? I am no Daniel come to judgment, and happily,
there is in my mind no reason to brand either side
as wrong. In the clearer understanding that we now
have of the laws of historical evolution, we know that
both were right, for both were struggling blindly and
unconsciously in the grasp of economic tendencies
they did not understand, towards a consummation they
could not foresee. Both were helpless instruments of
those forces that were hurrying our nation forward
another step in its evolutionary progress, and whatever
of praise or blame may attach to either side for their
methods of carrying on the struggle, the result belongs
to neither; it was simply the working out of that
natural law of economic determinism which lies at the
root of all the great struggles of history.

And now that we have learned wisdom through
suffering; now that we have seen how much more can
be accomplished by peaceful coöperation under the safe

guidance of natural laws, than by wasteful violence,
we are prepared to take our part intelligently in the
next great forward movement of the race - a movement
having for its object not merely a closer union
of kindred states, but that grander union dreamed of
by the poet, which is to find its consummation in

CHAPTER I

ACROSS SHERMAN'S TRACK

December 19-24, 1864

EXPLANATORY NOTE. - At
the time of this narrative, the
writer's eldest sister, Mrs. Troup Butler, was living alone
with her two little children on a plantation in Southwest
Georgia, between Albany and Thomasville. Besides our
father, who was sixty-two when the war began, and a
little brother who was only twelve when it closed, we
had no male relations out of the army, and she lived there
with no other protector, for a good part of the time, than
the negroes themselves. There were not over a hundred
of them on the place, and though they were faithful, and
nobody ever thought of being afraid on their account, it
was lonely for her to be there among them with no other
white person than the overseer, and so the writer and a
younger sister, Metta, were usually sent to be her companions
during the winter. The summers she spent with
us at the old home.

But in the fall of 1864, while Sherman's army was
lying around Atlanta like a pent-up torrent ready to burst
forth at any moment, my father was afraid to let us get
out of his sight, and we all stood waiting in our defenseless
homes till we could see what course the destroying
flood would take. Happily for us it passed by without
engulfing the little town of Washington, where our home
was situated, and after it had swept over the capital of
the State, reaching Milledgeville November 23d, rolled

on toward Savannah, where the sound of merry Christmas
bells was hushed by the roar of its angry waters.

Meanwhile the people in our part of Georgia had had
time to get their breath once more, and began to look
about for some way of bridging the gap of ruin and desolation
that stretched through the entire length of our
State. The Georgia Railroad, running from Atlanta to
Augusta, had been destroyed to the north of us, and the
Central of Georgia, from Macon to Savannah, was intact
for only sixteen miles; that part of the track connecting
the former city with the little station of Gordon having
lain beyond the path of the invaders. By taking advantage
of this fragment, and of some twelve miles of track
that had been laid from Camack, a station on the uninjured
part of the Georgia railroad, to Mayfield, on what
is now known as the Macon branch of the Georgia, the
distance across country could be shortened by twenty-five
miles, and the wagon road between these two points at
once became a great national thoroughfare.

By the middle of December, communication, though
subject to many difficulties and discomforts, was so well
established that my father concluded it would be practicable
for us to make the journey to our sister. We were
eager to go, and would be safer, he thought, when once
across the line, than at home. Sherman had industriously
spread the impression that his next move would be on
either Charleston or Augusta, and in the latter event, our
home would be in the line of danger. Southwest Georgia
was at that time a "Land of Goshen" and a "city of
refuge" to harassed Confederates. Thus far it had never
been seriously threatened by the enemy, and was supposed
to be the last spot in the Confederacy on which he would
ever set foot - and this, in the end, proved to be not far
from the truth.

So then, after careful consultation with my oldest
brother, Fred, at that time commandant of the Georgia
camp of instruction for conscripts, in Macon, we set out
under the protection of a reliable man whom my brother
detailed to take care of us. It may seem strange to
modern readers that two young women should have been
sent off on such a journey with no companion of their
own sex, but the exigencies of the times did away with
many conventions. Then, too, the exquisite courtesy and
deference of the Southern men of that day toward
women made the chaperon a person of secondary importance
among us. It was the "male protector" who
was indispensable. I have known matrons of forty
wait for weeks on the movements of some male acquaintance
rather than take the railroad journey of fifty miles
from our village to Augusta, alone; and when I was sent
off to boarding school, I remember, the great desideratum
was to find some man who would pilot me safely through
the awful difficulties of a railroad journey of 200 miles.
Women, young or old, were intrusted to the care of any
man known to their family as a gentleman, with a confidence
as beautiful as the loyalty that inspired it. Under
no other social régime, probably, have young girls been
allowed such liberty of intercourse with the other sex as
were those of the Old South - a liberty which the notable
absence of scandals and divorces in that society goes
far to justify.

Dec. 24, 1864, Saturday. - Here we are in Macon
at last, and this is the first chance I have had at
my journal since we left home last Monday. Father
went with us to Barnett, and then turned us over to
Fred, who had come up from Augusta to meet us and

travel with us as far as Mayfield. At Camack, where
we changed cars, we found the train literally crammed
with people going on the same journey with ourselves.
Since the destruction of the Georgia, the Macon &
Western, and the Central railroads by Sherman's
army, the whole tide of travel between the eastern and
western portions of our poor little Confederacy flows
across the country from Mayfield to Gordon. Mett
and I, with two other ladies, whom we found on the
train at Camack, were the first to venture across the
gap - 65 miles of bad roads and worse conveyances,
through a country devastated by the most cruel and
wicked invasion of modern times.

As we entered the crowded car, two young officers
gave up their seats to us and saw that we were made
comfortable while Fred was out looking after the
baggage. Near us sat a handsome middle-aged gentleman
in the uniform of a colonel, with a pretty young
girl beside him, whom we at once spotted as his bride.
They were surrounded by a number of officers, and
the bride greatly amused us, in the snatches of their
conversation we overheard, by her extreme bookishness.
She was clearly just out of school. The only
other lady on the car was closely occupied with the
care of her husband, a wounded Confederate officer,
whom we afterwards learned was Maj. Bonham, of
South Carolina.

It is only eleven miles from Camack to Mayfield,
but the road was so bad and the train so heavy that

we were nearly two hours in making the distance.
Some of the seats were without backs and some without
bottoms, and the roadbed so uneven that in places
the car tilted from side to side as if it was going to
upset and spill us all out. We ate dinner on the cars
- that is, Fred ate, while Metta and I were watching
the people. The weather was very hot, and I sweltered
like a steam engine under the overload of clothing I
had put on to save room in my trunk. At three o'clock
in the afternoon we reached Mayfield, a solitary shanty
at the present terminus of the R. R. Fred had sent
Mr. Belisle, one of his men, ahead to engage a conveyance,
and he met us with a little spring wagon,
which he said would take us on to Sparta that night
for forty dollars. It had no top, but was the choice
of all the vehicles there, for it had springs, of which
none of the others could boast. There was the mail
hack, which had the advantage of a cover, but could
not carry our trunks, and really looked as if it were too
decrepit to bear the weight of the mail bags. We
mounted our little wagon, and the others were soon all
filled so full that they looked like delegations from the
old woman that lived in a shoe, and crowds of pedestrians,
unable to find a sticking place on tongue or
axle, plodded along on foot. The colonel and his
wife were about to get into a rough old plantation
wagon, already overloaded, but Fred said she was too
pretty to ride in such a rattle-trap, and offered her a
seat in ours, which was gladly accepted. We also

made room for Dr. Shine, one of the officers of their
party, who, we afterwards found out, was a friend of
Belle Randolph.

About a mile from Mayfield we stopped at a forlorn
country tavern, where Fred turned us over to Mr.
Belisle, and went in to spend the night there, so as to
return to Augusta by the next train. I felt rather
desolate after his departure, but we soon got into
conversation with the colonel and his bride, the gentlemen
who were following on foot joined in, and we
sang rebel songs and became very sociable together.
We had not gone far when big drops of rain began
to fall from an angry black cloud that had been gradually
creeping upon us from the northwest. The bride
raised a little fancy silk parasol that made the rest
of us laugh, while Metta and I took off our hats and
began to draw on shawls and hoods, and a young
captain, who was plodding on foot behind us, hastened
to offer his overcoat. When we found that he had a
wounded arm, disabled by a Yankee bullet, we tried
to make room for him in the wagon, but it was impossible
to squeeze another person into it. Ralph, the
driver, had been turned afoot to make room for Dr.
Shine, and was walking ahead to act as guide in the
darkness.

Just after nightfall we came to a public house five
miles from Sparta, where the old man lives from
whom our wagons were hired, and we stopped to pay
our fare and get supper, if anybody wanted it. He

is said to be fabulously rich, and owns all the land for
miles around, but he don't live like it. He is palsied
and bed-ridden, but so eager after money that guests
are led to his bedside to pay their reckoning into his
own hands. Mett and I staid in the wagon and sent
Mr. Belisle to settle for us, but the gentlemen of our
party who went in, said it was dreadful to see how his
trembling old fingers would clutch at the bills they paid
him, and the suspicious looks he would cast around to
make sure he was not being cheated. They could talk
of nothing else for some time after they came out.
We stopped at this place nearly an hour, while the
horses were being changed and the drivers getting their
supper. There was a fine grove around the house, but
the wind made a dismal howling among the branches,
and ominous mutterings of distant thunder added to
our uneasiness. Large fires were burning in front of
the stables and threw a weird glare upon the groups of
tired soldiers gathered round them, smoking their pipes
and cooking their scanty rations, and the flashing uniforms
of Confederate officers, hurrying in and out,
added to the liveliness of the scene. Many of them
came to our wagon to see if they could do anything for
us, and their presence, brave fellows, gave me a comfortable
feeling of safety and protection. Dr. Shine
brought us a toddy, and the colonel and the captain
would have smothered us under overcoats and army
blankets if we had let them.

towards Sparta, which seemed to recede as we advanced.
Dr. Shine, who was driving, didn't know
the road, and had to guide the horses by Ralph's direction
as he walked ahead and sung out: "Now, pull to
de right!" "Now, go straight ahead!" "Take
keer, marster, dar's a bad hole ter yo' lef'," and so on,
till all at once the long-threatened rain began to pour
down, and everything was in confusion. Somebody
cried out in the darkness; "Confound Sparta! will we
never get there?" and Ralph made us all laugh again
with his answer:

"Yessir, yessir, we's right in de subjues er de town
now." And sure enough, the next turn in the road
revealed the lights of the village glimmering before
us. We drove directly to Mr. William Simpson's,
and when Metta and I had gotten out, the wagon went
on with its other passengers to the hotel. We met
with such a hearty reception from Belle and her mother
that for the moment all our troubles were forgotten.
A big, cheerful fire was blazing in the sitting-room,
and as I sank into a soft easy chair, I felt my first
sensation of fatigue.

Next morning the sky was overcast, everything outside
was wet and dripping and a cold wind had sprung
up that rattled the naked boughs of a great elm, heavy
with raindrops, against our window. As soon as the
houseboy had kindled a fire, Mrs. Simpson's maid
came to help us dress, and brought a toddy of fine old
peach brandy, sweetened with white sugar. I made

Mett take a big swig of it to strengthen her for the
journey, as she seemed very weak; but not being accustomed
to the use of spirits, it upset her so that she
couldn't walk across the floor. I was frightened
nearly out of my wits, but she soon recovered and felt
much benefited by her unintentional spree, at which
we had a good laugh.

We had a royal breakfast, and while we were eating
it, Mr. Belisle, who had spent the night at the hotel,
drove up with a four-mule wagon, in which he had
engaged places for us and our trunks to Milledgeville,
at seventy-five dollars apiece. It was a common plantation
wagon, without cover or springs, and I saw Mr.
Simpson shake his head ominously as we jingled off to
take up more passengers at the hotel. There were
several other conveyances of the same sort, already
overloaded, waiting in front of the door, and a number
of travelers standing on the sidewalk rushed forward
to secure places in ours as soon as we halted. The
first to climb in was a poor sick soldier, of whom no
pay was demanded. Next came a captain of Texas
Rangers, then a young lieutenant in a shabby uniform
that had evidently seen very hard service, and after him
our handsome young captain of the night before. He
grumbled a little at the looks of the conveyance, but
on finding we were going to ride in it, dashed off to
secure a seat for himself. While we sat waiting
there, I overheard a conversation between a countryman
and a nervous traveler that was not calculated to

relieve my mind. In answer to some inquiry about
the chances for hiring a conveyance at Milledgeville,
I heard the countryman say:

"Milledgeville's like hell; you kin get thar easy
enough, but gittin' out agin would beat the Devil himself."

I didn't hear the traveler's next remark, but it must
have been something about Metta and me, for I heard
the countryman answer:

"Ef them ladies ever gits to Gordon, they'll be good
walkers. Sherman's done licked that country clean;
d - n me ef you kin hire so much as a nigger an' a
wheelbarrer."

I was so uneasy that I asked Mr. Belisle to go and
question the man further, because I knew that after
her long attack of typhoid fever, last summer, Metta
couldn't stand hardships as well as I could. When
the captain heard me he spoke up immediately and said:

"Don't give yourselves the slightest uneasiness,
young ladies; I'll see that you get safe to Gordon, if
you will trust to me."

He spoke with an air of authority that was reassuring,
and when he sprang down from the wagon and
joined a group of officers on the sidewalk, I knew that
something was in the wind. After a whispered consultation
among them, and a good deal of running
back and forth, he came to us and said that they had
decided to "press" the wagon in case of necessity, to
take the party to Gordon, and all being now ready,

we moved out of Sparta. We soon became very
sociable with our new companions, though not one of
us knew the other even by name. Mett and I saw
that they were all dying with curiosity about us and
enjoyed keeping them mystified. The captain said he
was from Baltimore, and it was a sufficient introduction
when we found that he knew the Elzeys and the
Irwins, and that handsome Ed Carey I met in Montgomery
last winter, who used to be always telling me
how much I reminded him of his cousin "Connie."
Just beyond Sparta we were halted by one of the
natives, who, instead of paying forty dollars for his
passage to the agent at the hotel, like the rest of us,
had walked ahead and made a private bargain with
Uncle Grief, the driver, for ten dollars. This
"Yankee trick" raised a laugh among our impecunious
Rebs, and the lieutenant, who was just out of a
Northern prison, and very short of funds, thanked
him for the lesson and declared he meant to profit by
it the next chance he got. The newcomer proved to
be a very amusing character, and we nicknamed him
"Sam Weller," on account of his shrewdness and
rough-and-ready wit. He was dressed in a coarse
home-made suit, but was evidently something of a
dandy, as his shirt-front sported a broad cotton rude
edged with home-made cotton lace. He was a rebel
soldier, he said: "Went in at the fust pop and been
a-fightin' ever since, till the Yankees caught me here,
home on furlough, and wouldn't turn me loose till I

had took their infernal oath - beg your pardon, ladies
- the jig's pretty nigh up anyway, so I don't reckon
it'll make much diff'rence."

He told awful tales about the things Sherman's
robbers had done; it made my blood boil to hear them,
and when the captain asked him if some of the rascals
didn't get caught themselves sometimes - stragglers
and the like - he answered with a wink that said more
than words:

"Yes; our folks took lots of prisoners; more'n'll
ever be heard of agin."

"How did they manage it?" continued the lieutenant,
in a tone that showed he understood Sam's
metaphor.

"Just took 'em out in the woods and lost 'em," he
replied, in his jerky, laconic way. "Ever heerd o'
losin' men, lady?" he added, turning to me, with an
air of grim waggery that made my flesh creep - for
after all, even Yankees are human beings, though they
don't always behave like it.

"Yes," I said, "I had heard of it, but thought it a
horrible thing."

"I don't b'lieve in losin' 'em, neither, as a gener'l
thing," he went on. "I don't think it's right principul,
and I wouldn't lose one myself, but when I see
what they have done to these people round here, I

can't blame 'em for losin' every devil of 'em they kin
git their hands on."

"What was the process of losing?" asked the captain.
"Did they manage the business with fire-arms?"

"Sometimes, when they was in a hurry," Mr.
Weller explained, with that horrible, grim irony of
his, "the guns would go off an' shoot 'em, in spite of
all that our folks could do. But most giner'ly they
took the grapevine road in the fust patch of woods
they come to, an' soon as ever they got sight of a tree
with a grape vine on it, it's cur'ous how skeered their
hosses would git. You couldn't keep 'em from runnin'
away, no matter what you done, an' they never
run fur before their heads was caught in a grape
vine and they would stand thar, dancin' on nothin' till
they died. Did you ever hear of anybody dancin' on
nothin' before, lady?" - turning to me.

I said he ought to be ashamed to tell it; even a
Yankee was entitled to protection when a prisoner
of war.

"But these fellows wasn't regular prisoners of
war, lady," said the sick soldier; "they were thieves
and houseburners," - and I couldn't but feel there was
something in that view of it. *

About three miles from Sparta we struck the
"Burnt Country," as it is well named by the natives,
and then I could better understand the wrath and
desperation of these poor people. I almost felt as if
I should like to hang a Yankee myself. There was
hardly a fence left standing all the way from Sparta
to Gordon. The fields were trampled down and the
road was lined with carcasses of horses, hogs, and
cattle that the invaders, unable either to consume or
to carry away with them, had wantonly shot down
to starve out the people and prevent them from making
their crops. The stench in some places was unbearable;
every few hundred yards we had to hold
our noses or stop them with the cologne Mrs. Elzey
had given us, and it proved a great boon. The dwellings
that were standing all showed signs of pillage,
and on every plantation we saw the charred remains
of the gin-house and packing-screw, while here and
there, lone chimney-stacks, "Sherman's Sentinels,"
told of homes laid in ashes. The infamous wretches!
I couldn't wonder now that these poor people should

Page 33

want to put a rope round the neck of every red-handed
"devil of them" they could lay their hands on. Hay
ricks and fodder stacks were demolished, corn cribs
were empty, and every bale of cotton that could be
found was burnt by the savages. I saw no grain of
any sort, except little patches they had spilled when
feeding their horses and which there was not even a
chicken left in the country to eat. A bag of oats
might have lain anywhere along the road without
danger from the beasts of the field, though I cannot
say it would have been safe from the assaults of
hungry man. Crowds of soldiers were tramping over
the road in both directions; it was like traveling
through the streets of a populous town all day. They
were mostly on foot, and I saw numbers seated on
the roadside greedily eating raw turnips, meat skins,
parched corn - anything they could find, even picking
up the loose grains that Sherman's horses had left. I
felt tempted to stop and empty the contents of our
provision baskets into their laps, but the dreadful accounts
that were given of the state of the country
before us, made prudence get the better of our generosity.

The roads themselves were in a better condition
than might have been expected, and we traveled at a
pretty fair rate, our four mules being strong and in
good working order. When we had made about half
the distance to Milledgeville it began to rain, so the
gentlemen cut down saplings which they fitted in the

form of bows across the body of the wagon, and
stretching the lieutenant's army blanket over it, made
a very effectual shelter. Our next halt was near a
dilapidated old house where there was a fine well of
water. The Yankees had left it, I suppose, because
they couldn't carry it away. Here we came up with
a wagon on which were mounted some of the people
we had seen on the cars the day before. They
stopped to exchange experiences, offered us a toddy,
and brought us water in a beautiful calabash gourd
with a handle full three feet long. We admired it so
much that one of them laughingly proposed to "capture"
it for us, but we told them we didn't care to
imitate Sherman's manners. A mile or two further
on we were hailed by a queer-looking object sitting on
a log in the corner of a half-burnt fence. It was
wrapped up in a big white blanket that left nothing
else visible except a round, red face and a huge pair
of feet. Before anybody could decide whether the
apparition was a ghost from the lower regions or an
escaped lunatic from the state asylum in his nightgown,
Sam Weller jumped up, exclaiming:

to be taken in. He was shaking with a common ague
fit, and though we couldn't help feeling sorry for him,
he looked so comical as he stood there with his blanket
drawn round him like a winding sheet and his little
red Dutch face peering out at us with such an expression
of exaggerated and needless terror, that it was
hard to repress a smile. The captain was about to order
Uncle Grief to drive on without taking any further
notice of him, but Sam Weller assured us that the
country people would certainly hang him if they should
catch him away from his command. They were too
exasperated to make any distinction between a "galvanized"
and any other sort of a Yankee - and to tell
the truth, I think, myself, if there is any difference
at all, it is in favor of those who remain true to their
own cause. The kind-hearted lieutenant took his
part, Mett and I seconded him, and the poor creature
was allowed to climb into our wagon, where he curled
himself up on a pile of fodder beside our sick soldier,
who didn't seem to relish the companionship very
much, though he said nothing. But Sam Weller
couldn't let him rest, and immediately began to berate
him for his imprudence in straggling off from his
command at the risk of getting himself hanged, and
to entertain him with enlivening descriptions of the
art of "dancin' on nothin'" and the various methods
of getting "lost." All at once he came to a sudden
stop in his tirade, and asked,

Then, pulling a fat roll of change bills out of his
pocket, he ("Sam") handed them to the Dutchman,
saying:

"Well, here's shin-plasters enough to cover you
better than that there blanket, if you want them."

Hans grabbed the money, which was increased by
small contributions from the rest of us - not that we
thought his enlistment in the Confederate army
counted for anything, but we felt sorry for him, because
he was "sick and a stranger." After all, what
can these ignorant foreigners be expected to know or
care about our quarrel?

Soon after this we came to a pretty, clear stream,
where Uncle Grief stopped to water his horses and we
decided to eat our dinner. Those of our companions
who had anything to eat at all, were provided only
with army rations, so Mett and I shared with them
the good things we had brought from home. We
offered some to Hans, and this started Sam off again:

"Now, Wappy, see that!" he cried. "The rebel
ladies feed you; remember that the next time you go
to burn a house down, or steal a rebel lady's watch!
I say," he shouted, putting his lips to Hans's ear, as
the Dutchman seemed not to understand, "remember
how the rebel ladies fed you, when you turn Yank
agin and go to drivin' women out-o'-doors and stealin'
their clothes."

Fortunately for "Wappy's" peace of mind he
didn't know enough English to take in the long list of
Yankee misdeeds that Sam continued to recount for
his benefit, although he assured us that he could "unterstant
vat man say to him besser als he could dalk
himselbst." The captain suspected him of putting on,
and laughed at Metta and me for wasting sympathy
on him, but the lieutenant shared our feelings, and I
liked him for it.

Just before reaching Milledgeville, Sam Weller got
down to walk to his home, which he said was about
two miles back from the highway. "Come, Wappy,"
he said, as he was climbing down, "if you will go home
with me, I will take care of you and put you in a
horspittle where you won't be in no danger of gittin'
lost. Can you valk doo milsh?"

Hans replied in the affirmative, and scrambled down
with a deal of groaning and quaking. Sam and the
lieutenant assisted him with much real gentleness, and
when he was on the ground, he tried to make a speech
thanking the "laties unt shentlemansh," but it was in
such bad English that we couldn't understand.

"Now, don't lose the poor wretch," I said to Mr.
Weller, as they moved off together.

"No, no, miss, I won't do that," he answered in a
tone of such evident sincerity that I felt Hans was
safe in the care of this strange, contradictory being,
who could talk so like a savage, and yet be capable of
such real kindness.

Before crossing the Oconee at Milledgeville we ascended
an immense hill, from which there was a fine
view of the town, with Gov. Brown's fortifications in
the foreground and the river rolling at our feet. The
Yankees had burnt the bridge, so we had to cross on a
ferry. There was a long train of vehicles ahead of
us, and it was nearly an hour before our turn came,
so we had ample time to look about us. On our left
was a field where 30,000 Yankees had camped hardly
three weeks before. It was strewn with the débris
they had left behind, and the poor people of the neighborhood
were wandering over it, seeking for anything
they could find to eat, even picking up grains of corn
that were scattered around where the Yankees had
fed their horses. We were told that a great many
valuables were found there at first, - plunder that the
invaders had left behind, but the place had been picked
over so often by this time that little now remained
except tufts of loose cotton, piles of half-rotted grain,
and the carcasses of slaughtered animals, which raised
a horrible stench. Some men were plowing in one
part of the field, making ready for next year's crop.

At the Milledgeville Hotel, we came to a dead halt.
Crowds of uniformed men were pacing restlessly up
and down the galleries like caged animals in a menagerie.
As soon as our wagon drew up there was a
general rush for it, but our gentlemen kept possession
and told Mett and me to sit still and hold it while
they went in to see what were the chances for accommodation.

After a hurried consultation with the other
gentlemen of our party, they all collected round our
wagon and informed us that they had "pressed" it
into service to take us to Gordon, and we were to go
on to Scotsborough that night. When all the baggage
was in, the vehicle was so heavily loaded that not only
the servants had to walk, but the gentlemen of the
party could only ride by turns, one or two at a time.
Our sick soldier was left at the hospital, and the
bride's big trunks, that I wouldn't have believed all the
women in the Confederacy had clothes enough to fill,
were piled up in front to protect us against the wind.
Uncle Grief looked the embodiment of his name while
these preparations were going on, but a tip of ten
dollars from each of us, and the promise of a letter
to his master relieving him from all blame, quickly
overcame his scruples.

Night closed in soon after we left Milledgeville, and
it began to rain in earnest. Then we lost the road,
and as if that were not enough, the bride dropped
her parasol and we had to stop there in the rain to look
for it. A new silk parasol that cost four or five hundred
dollars was too precious to lose. The colonel and
the captain went back half a mile to get a torch, and
after all, found the parasol lying right under her feet
in the body of the wagon. About nine o'clock we
reached Scotsborough, the little American "Cranford,"
where the Butlers used to have their summer home. Like
Mrs. Gaskell's delightful little borough, it is inhabited

chiefly by aristocratic widows and old maids, who
rarely had their quiet lives disturbed by any event
more exciting than a church fair, till Sherman's army
Marched through and gave them such a shaking up
that it will give them something to talk about the rest
of their days. Dr. Shine and the Texas captain had
gone ahead of the wagon and made arrangements for
our accommodation. The night was very dismal, and
when we drew up in front of the little inn, and saw
a big lightwood fire blazing in the parlor chimney, I
thought I had never seen anything so bright and comfortable
before. When Mrs. Palmer, the landlady,
learned who Metta and I were, she fairly hugged us
off our feet, and declared that Mrs. Troup Butler's
sisters were welcome to her house and everything in
it, and then she bustled off with her daughter Jenny
to make ready their own chamber for our use. She
could not give us any supper because the Yankees had
taken all her provisions, but she brought out a jar of
pickles that had been hidden up the chimney, and
gave us the use of her dining table and dishes - such
of them as the Yankees had left - to spread our lunch
on. While Charles and Crockett, the servants of Dr.
Shine and the colonel, were unpacking our baskets in
the dining-room, all our party assembled in the little
parlor, the colonel was made master of ceremonies,
and a general introduction took place. The Texas
captain gave his name as Jarman; the shabby lieutenant
in the war-worn uniform - all honor to it - was

Mr. Foster, of Florence, Ala.; the Baltimorean was
Capt. Mackall, cousin of the commandant at Macon,
and the colonel himself had been a member of the
Confederate Congress, but resigned to go into the
army, the only place for a brave man in these times.
So we all knew each other at last and had a good laugh
together over the secret curiosity that had been devouring
each of us about our traveling companions,
for the last twenty-four hours. Presently Crockett
announced supper, and we went into the dining-room.
We had some real coffee, a luxury we owed the bride,
but there was only one spoon to all the company, so
she arranged that she should pour out the coffee, I
should stir each cup, and Mett pass them to the
guests, with the assurance that the cup was made
sweeter "by the magic of three pair of fair hands."
Then Mrs. Palmer's jar of pickles was brought out
and presented with a little tableau scene she had made
up beforehand, even coaching me as to the pretty
speeches I was to make. I felt very silly, but I hoped
the others were too hungry to notice.

Supper over, we returned to the parlor, and I never
spent a more delightful evening. Riding along in the
wagon, we had amused ourselves by making up impromptu
couplets to "The Confederate Toast," and
now that we were comfortably housed, I thanked
Capt. Jarman and Dr. Shine for their efforts, in a
pair of impromptu verses to the same air. This
started up a rivalry in verse-making, each one trying

to outdo the other in the absurdity of their composition,
and some of them were very funny. When we
broke up for the night, there were more theatricals
planned by the bride, who disposed a white scarf
round her head, placed Metta and me, one on each
side of her, so as to make a sort of tableau vivant on
the order of a "Three Graces," or a "Faith, Hope,
and Charity" group, and backed slowly out of the
room, bowing and singing, "Good Night." She
really was so pretty and girlish that she could carry
off anything with grace, but I hadn't that excuse, and
never felt so foolish in my life.

Mrs. Palmer's chamber, in which Metta and I were
to sleep, was a shed room of not very inviting aspect,
but the poor woman had done her best for us, and
we were too tired to be critical. When I had put my
clothes off and started to get into bed, I found there
was but one sheet, and that looked as if half of Sherman's
army might have slept in it. Mett was too dead
sleepy to care; "Shut your eyes and go it blind," she
said, and suiting the action to the word, tumbled into
bed without looking, and was asleep almost by the
time she had touched the pillow. I tried to follow
her example, but it was no use. The weather had
begun to turn very cold, and the scanty supply of bedclothes
the Yankees had left Mrs. Palmer was not
enough to keep me warm. Then it began to rain in
torrents, and presently I felt a cold shower bath descending
on me through the leaky roof. Metta's side

of the bed was comparatively dry, and she waked up
just enough to pull the cotton bedquilt that was our
only covering, over her head, and then went stolidly
to sleep again. Meanwhile the storm increased till it
was terrible. The rain seemed to come down in a
solid sheet, and I thought the old house would be torn
from its foundations by the fierce wind that swept
over it. The solitary pine knot that had been our
only light went out and left us in total darkness, but
I was getting so drenched where I lay that I was
obliged to move, so I groped my way to an old lounge
that stood in a somewhat sheltered corner by the fireplace,
and covered myself with the clothing I had
taken off. The lounge was so narrow that I couldn't
turn over without causing my cover to fall over on the
floor, so I lay stiff as a corpse all night, catching little
uneasy snatches of sleep between the wildest bursts of
the storm. Early in the morning Mrs. Palmer and
Jenny came in with bowls and pans to put under the
leaks. There were so many that we were quite
shingled over, as we lay in bed, with a tin roof of pots
and pans, and they made such a rattling as the water
pattered into them, that neither of us could sleep any
more for laughing. The colonel had given us instructions
over night to be ready for an early start, so when
another pine knot had been lighted on the hearth, we
made haste to dress, before it burned out.

Mrs. Palmer had contrived to spread us a scanty
breakfast of hot waffles, fresh sausages, and parched

wheat coffee. But the bride, as is the way of brides,
was so long in getting ready that it was nearly ten
o'clock before we started on our journey. It had
stopped raining by this time, but the weather was so
cold and cloudy that I found my two suits of clothing
very comfortable. A bitter wind was blowing, and
on all sides were to be seen shattered boughs and
uprooted trees, effects of the past night's storm. The
gentlemen had had all the baggage placed in front, and
the floor of the wagon covered with fodder, where we
could sit and find some protection from the wind. I
should have felt tolerably comfortable if I had not
seen that Metta was feeling ill, though she kept up
her spirits and did not complain. She said she had
a headache, and I noticed that her face was covered
with ugly red splotches, which I supposed were caused
by the wind chapping her skin. We put our shawls
over our heads, but the wind played such antics with
them that they were not much protection. The bride,
instead of crouching down with us, mounted on top
of a big trunk, the coldest place she could find, and
cheered us with the comforting announcement that
she was going to have pneumonia. It was beautiful
to see how the big, handsome colonel devoted himself
to her, and I half suspect that was at the bottom of
her pneumonia scare - at least we heard no more of it.
I offered her some of our brandy, and the doctor
made her a toddy, but she couldn't drink it because
it was grape and not peach. Everybody seemed disposed

to be silent and out of sorts at first, except Metta
and me, who had not yet had adventures enough to
surfeit us, and we kept on talking till we got the rest
of them into a good humor. We made the gentlemen
tell us what their various professions were before the
war, and were delighted to learn that our dear colonel
was a lawyer. We told him that our father was a
judge, and that we loved lawyers better than anybody
else except soldiers, whereupon he laughed and advised
the other gentlemen, who were all unmarried,
to take to the law. I said that about lawyers for the
doctor's benefit, because he looked all the time as if he
were afraid one of us was going to fall in love with
him. I laughed and told Mett that it was she that
scared him, with her hair all cropped off from fever,
and that dreadful splotched complexion. He heaped
coals of fire on my head soon after, when I was cowering
down in the body of the wagon, nearly dead with
cold, by inviting me to get out and warm myself by
taking a walk. My feet were so cold that they felt
like lifeless clods and I could hardly stand on them
when I first stepped to the ground, but a brisk walk
of two miles warmed me up so pleasantly that I was
sorry when a succession of mud holes forced me to
get back into the wagon.

About noon we struck the Milledgeville & Gordon
R.R., near a station which the Yankees had burnt,
and a mill near by they had destroyed also, out of
pure malice, to keep the poor people of the country

from getting their corn ground. There were several
crossroads at the burnt mill and we took the wrong
one, and got into somebody's cornfield, where we
found a little crib whose remoteness seemed to have
protected it from the greed of the invaders. We were
about to "press" a few ears for our hungry mules,
when we spied the owner coming across the fields and
waited for him. The captain asked if he would sell
us a little provender for our mules, but he gave such a
pitiful account of the plight in which Sherman had left
him that we felt as mean as a lot of thieving Yankees
ourselves, for having thought of disturbing his property.
He was very polite, and walked nearly a mile
in the biting wind to put us back in the right road.
Three miles from Gordon we came to Commissioners'
Creek, of which we had heard awful accounts all along
the road. It was particularly bad just at this time on
account of the heavy rain, and had overflowed the
swamp for nearly two miles. Porters with heavy
packs on their backs were wading through the sloughs,
and soldiers were paddling along with their legs bare
and their breeches tied up in a bundle on their
shoulders. They were literal sans culottes. Some
one who had just come from the other side advised us
to unload the wagon and make two trips of it, as it
was doubtful whether the mules could pull through
with such a heavy load. The Yankees had thrown
dead cattle in the ford, so that we had to drive about
at random in the mud and water, to avoid these uncanny

obstructions. Our gentlemen, however, concluded
that we had not time to make two trips, so
they all piled into the wagon at once and trusted to
Providence for the result. We came near upsetting
twice, and the water was so deep in places that we
had to stand on top of the trunks to keep our feet dry.

Safely over the swamp, we dined on the scraps left
in our baskets, which afforded but a scanty meal. The
cold and wind had increased so that we could hardly
keep our seats, but the roads improved somewhat as
we advanced, and the aspect of the country was beautiful
in spite of all that the vandalism of war had done
to disfigure its fair face. Every few hundred yards
we crossed beautiful, clear streams with luxuriant
swamps along their borders, gay with shining evergreens
and bright winter berries. But when we struck
the Central R.R. at Gordon, the desolation was more
complete than anything we had yet seen. There was
nothing left of the poor little village but ruins, charred
and black as Yankee hearts. The pretty little dépot
presented only a shapeless pile of bricks capped by a
crumpled mass of tin that had once covered the roof.
The R.R. track was torn up and the iron twisted into
every conceivable shape. Some of it was wrapped
round the trunks of trees, as if the cruel invaders, not
satisfied with doing all the injury they could to their
fellowmen, must spend their malice on the innocent
trees of the forest, whose only fault was that they
grew on Southern soil. Many fine young saplings

were killed in this way, but the quickest and most
effective method of destruction was to lay the iron
across piles of burning cross-ties, and while heated
in the flames it was bent and warped so as to be entirely
spoiled. A large force is now at work repairing
the road; as the repairs advance a little every day, the
place for meeting the train is constantly changing and
not always easy to find. We floundered around in
the swamps a long time and at last found our train
in the midst of a big swamp, with crowds of people
waiting around on little knolls and islands till the
cars should be opened. Each group had its own fire,
and tents were improvised out of shawls and blankets
so that the scene looked like a gypsy camp. Here we
met again all the people we had seen on the train at
Camack, besides a great many others. Judge Baker
and the Bonhams arrived a few minutes behind us,
after having met with all sorts of disasters at
Commissioners' Creek, which they crossed at a
worse ford than the one we had taken. We found a
dry place near the remains of a half-burned fence
where Charles and Crockett soon had a rousing fire
and we sat round it, talking over our adventures till
the car was ready for us. There was a great scramble
to get aboard, and we were all crowded into a little
car not much bigger than an ordinary omnibus. Mett
and I were again indebted to the kindness of soldier
boys for a seat. We had about the best one in the
car, which is not saying much, with the people jostling

and pressing against us from the crowded aisle, but
as we had only 16 miles to go, we thought we could
stand it with a good grace. Metta's indisposition had
been increasing all day and she was now so ill that I
was seriously uneasy, but all I could do was to place
her next to the window, where she would not be so
much disturbed by the crowd. We steamed along
smoothly enough for an hour or two, until just at
nightfall, when within two miles of Macon, the train
suddenly stopped and we were told that we should
have to spend the night there or walk to town. The
bridge over Walnut Creek, which had been damaged
by Stoneman's raiders last summer, was so weakened
by the storm of the night before that it threatened
to give way, and it was impossible to run the train
across. We were all in despair. Metta was really
ill and the rest of us worn out with fatigue and loss
of sleep, besides being half famished. Our provisions
were completely exhausted; the fine grape brandy
mother had put in the basket was all gone - looted, I
suppose, by the servants - and we had no other medicine.
A good many of the men decided to walk,
among them our lieutenant, who was on his way home,
just out of a Yankee prison, and eager to spend Christmas
with his family. The dear, good-hearted fellow
seemed loath to leave us in that plight, and offered to
stay and see us through, if I wanted him, but I couldn't
impose on his kindness to that extent. Besides, we
still had the captain and the colonel, and all the rest

of them, and I knew we would never lack for attention
or protection as long as there was a Confederate
uniform in sight. Capt. Jarman and Dr. Shine joined
the walkers, too, in the vain hope of sending an engine,
or even a hand-car for us, but all their representations
to Gen. Cobb and the R.R. authorities were fruitless;
nothing could be done till morning, and a rumor got
out among us from somewhere that even then there
would be nothing for it but to walk and get our baggage
moved as best we might. For the first time my
spirits gave way, and as Metta was too ill to notice
what I was doing, I hid my face in my hands and took
a good cry. Then the captain came over and did his
best to cheer me up by talking about other things. He
showed me photographs of his sisters, nice, stylish-looking
girls, as one would expect the sisters of such
a man to be, and I quite fell in love with one of them,
who had followed him to a Yankee prison and died
there of typhoid fever, contracted while nursing him.
As soon as it became known that Metta was sick, we
were overwhelmed with kindness from all the other
passengers, but there was not much that anybody
could do, and rest, the chief thing she needed, was
out of the question. At supper time the conductor
brought in some hardtack that he had on board to feed
the workmen, and distributed it among us. I was so
hungry that I tried to eat it, but soon gave up, and
my jawbones are sore yet from the effort. But the
provisions that we had shared with our companions

on the journey proved to be bread cast on the waters
that did not wait many days to be returned. I had
hardly taken my first bite of hardtack when Judge
Baker invited Metta and me to share a nice cold
supper with him; the bride offered us the only thing
she had left - some real coffee, which the colonel had
boiled at a fire kindled on the ground outside - and two
ladies, strangers to us, who had got aboard at Gordon,
sent us each a paper package containing a dainty little
lunch of cold chicken and buttered biscuit. But Metta
was too ill to eat. She had a high fever, and we both
spent a miserable, sleepless night.

At last day began to break, cold, clear, and frosty,
and with it came travelers who had walked out from
Macon bringing confirmation of the report that no
arrangements would be made for carrying passengers
and their baggage to the city. This news made us
desperate. The men on board swore that the train
should not move till some provision was made for
getting us to our destination. This made the Gordon
passengers furious. They said there were several
women among them who had walked out from the
city (two of them with babies in their arms), and the
train should go on time, come what would. Our men
said there were ladies in the car, too; we had paid our
fare to Macon, and they intended to see that we got
there. Each party had a show of right on its side,
but possession is nine points of the law, and this advantage
we determined not to forego. The Gordon

passengers began to crowd in on us till we could hardly
breathe, and Capt. Mackall, in no gentle terms, ordered
them out. High words passed, swords and
pistols were drawn on both sides, and a general fight
seemed about to take place. Mett and I were frightened
out of our wits at the first alarm and threw our
arms about each other. I kept quiet till I saw the
shooting about to begin, and then, my nerves all unstrung
by what I had suffered during the night, I
tuned up and began to cry like a baby. It was well I
did, for my tears brought the men to their senses.
Judge Baker and Col. Scott interfered, reminding
them that ladies were present, and then arms were laid
aside and profuse apologies made for having frightened
us. Both parties then turned their indignation
against the railroad officials, and somebody was making
a bluster about pitching the conductor into the
creek, when he appeared on the scene and appeased
all parties by announcing that a locomotive and car
would be sent out to meet the passengers for Macon
on the other side of the creek and take us to the
city. In the meantime, we were tantalized by hearing
the whistles of the different trains with which
we wished to connect, as they rolled out of the
dépot in Macon.

It was eight o'clock before our transfer, consisting
of an engine and a single box-car, arrived at the other
end of the trestle, and as they had to be unloaded of
their freight before we could get aboard, it was nearly

ten when we reached Macon. But as soon as they were
heard approaching, we were so glad to get out of the
prison where we had spent such an uncomfortable
night that we immediately put on our wraps and began
to cross the tottering trestle on foot. It was 80 feet
high and half a mile long, over a swamp through
which flowed Walnut Creek, now swollen to a torrent.
Part of the flooring of the bridge was washed down
stream and our only foothold was a narrow plank,
hardly wider than my two hands. Capt. Mackall
charged himself with my parcels, and Mr. Belisle was
left to look after the trunks. Strong-headed men
walked along the sleepers on either side, to steady any
one that might become dizzy. Just behind Metta, who
followed the captain and me, hobbled a wounded
soldier on crutches, and behind him came Maj. Bonham,
borne on the back of a stout negro porter. Last
of all came porters with the trunks, and it is a miracle
to me how they contrived to carry such heavy loads
over that dizzy, tottering height.

Once across the bridge we disposed ourselves wherever
we could find a firm spot - a dry one was out of
the question. When Metta drew off her veil and
gloves, I was terrified at the looks of her hands and
face. We were both afraid she had contracted some
awful disease in that dirty car, but the captain laughed
and said he knew all about army diseases, and thought
it was nothing but measles. When we got to Macon,
Dr. Shine further relieved my mind by assuring me

We reached the dépot just ten minutes after the
South-Western train had gone out, so we went to the
Lanier House, and I at once sent Mr. Belisle for
Brother Troup, only to learn that he had gone on the
very train we had missed, to spend Christmas at his
plantation.

It was delightful to get into clean, comfortable
quarters at the Lanier House. Metta got into bed
and went right off to sleep, and I lay down for awhile,
but was so often disturbed by friendly messages and
inquiries that I got up and dressed for dinner. I put
on my pretty flowered merino that had been freshened
up with black silk ruchings that completely hid the
worn places, and the waist made over with Elizabethan
sleeves, so that it looked almost like a new dress, besides
being very becoming, as the big sleeves helped out
my figure by their fullness. I frizzed my hair and put
on the head-dress of black velvet ribbon and gold
braid that Cousin Sallie Farley gave me. I think I
must have looked nice, because I heard several people
inquiring who I was when I went into the dining-room.
I had hardly put in the last pin when a servant
came to announce that Mr. Charles Day, Mary's
father, had called. He was the only person in the
drawing-room when I entered and made a very singular,
not to say, striking appearance, with his snow-white
hair framing features of such a peculiar dark

complexion that he made me think of some antique
piece of wood-carving. The impression was strengthened
by a certain stiffness of manner that is generally
to be noticed in all men of Northern birth and education.
Not long after, Harry Day called. He said
that Mary * was in Savannah, cut off by
Sherman so
that they could get no news of her. He didn't
even know whether mother's invitation had reached
her.

Gussie and Mary Lou
Lamar followed the Days,
and I was kept so busy receiving callers and answering
inquiries about Mett that I didn't have time to find out
how tired and sleepy I was till I went to bed. Judge
Vason happened to be at the hotel when we arrived,
and insisted that we should pack up and go with him
to Albany next day and stay at his house till we were
both well rid of the measles - for it stands to reason
that I shall take it after nursing Metta. He said that
it had just been through his family from A to Z, so
there was no danger of our communicating it to anybody
there. Then Mrs. Edward Johnston came and
proposed taking us to her house, and on Dr. Shine's
advice I decided to accept this invitation, as it would
hardly be prudent for Metta to travel in her present
condition, and we could not get proper attention for
her at the hotel. I could not even get a chambermaid
without going the whole length of the corridor

The colonel and his party
left on the one o'clock train
that night for Columbus, where they expect to take
the boat for Apalachicola. After taking leave of them
I went to bed, and if ever any mortal did hard sleeping,
I did that night. Next day Mr. Johnston called in his
carriage and brought us to his beautiful home on Mulberry
St., where we are lodged like princesses, in a
bright, sunny room that makes me think of old Chaucer's
lines that I have heard Cousin Liza quote so
often:

"This is the port of rest from troublous toile,
The world's sweet inne from paine and wearisome turmoile."

CHAPTER II

PLANTATION LIFE

January 1 - April 3, 1865

EXPLANATORY NOTE. -
During the period embraced in
this chapter the great black tide of destruction that had
swept over Georgia turned its course northward from
Savannah to break a few weeks later (Feb. 17) in a cataract
of blood and fire on the city of Columbia. At the
same time the great tragedy of Andersonville was going
on under our eyes; and farther off, in Old Virginia, Lee
and his immortals were struggling in the toils of the
net that was drawing them on to the tragedy of Appomattox.
To put forward a trivial narrative of everyday
life at a time when mighty events like these were
taking place would seem little less than an impertinence,
did we not know that it is the ripple mark left on the sand
that shows where the tide came in, and the simple undergrowth
of the forest gives a character to the landscape
without which the most carefully-drawn picture
would be incomplete.

On the other hand, the mighty drama that was being
enacted around us reflected itself in the minutest details
of life, even our sports and amusements being colored
by it, as the record of the diary will show. The
present chapter opens with allusions to an expedition
sent out by Sherman from Savannah under Gen. Kilpatrick,
having for its object the destruction of the Stockade

at Andersonville, and release of the prisoners to
wreak their vengeance on the people whom they believed
to be responsible for their sufferings. The success of
this movement was frustrated only by the incessant rains
of that stormy winter, which flooded the intervening
country so that it was impossible for even the best
equipped cavalry to pass, and thus averted what might
have been the greatest tragedy of the war.

It is not my purpose to dwell upon public events in
these pages, nor to revive the dark memories of Andersonville,
but a few words concerning it are necessary to
a clear understanding of the allusions made to it in this
part of the record, and to a just appreciation of the
position of the Southern people in regard to that deplorable
episode of the war. Owing to the policy of the
Federal Government in refusing to exchange prisoners,
and to the ruin and devastation of war, which made it
impossible for the Confederate government to provide
adequately for its own soldiers, even with the patriotic
aid of our women, the condition of our prisons was anything
but satisfactory, both from lack of supplies and
from the unavoidable over-crowding caused by the failure
of all efforts to effect an exchange. Mr. Tanner,
ex-Commander of the G. A. R., who is the last person in
the world whom one would think of citing as a witness for
the South, bears this unconscious testimony to the force of
circumstances that made it impossible for our government
to remedy that unhappy situation:

"It is true that more prisoners died in Northern prisons than
Union prisoners died in Southern prisons. The explanation of
this is extremely simple. The Southern prisoners came North
worn and emaciated - half starved. They had reached this condition
because of their scant rations. They came from a mild
climate to a rigorous Northern climate, and, although we

gave them shelter and plenty to eat, they could not stand the
change."

This argument, intended as a defense of the North,
is a boomerang whose force as a weapon for the other
side it is unnecessary to point out. Whether the conditions
at Andersonville might have been ameliorated by
the personal efforts of those in charge, I do not know.
I never met Capt. Wirz, but I do know that had he
been an angel from heaven, he could not have changed
the pitiful tale of suffering from privation and hunger
unless he had possessed the power to repeat the miracle
of the loaves and fishes. I do know, too, that the
sufferings of the prisoners were viewed with the deepest
compassion by the people of the neighborhood, as the
diary will show, and they would gladly have relieved
them if they had been able. In the fall of 1864, when
it was feared that Sherman would send a raid to free
the prisoners and turn them loose upon the defenseless
country, a band of several thousand were shipped round
by rail to Camp Lawton, near Millen, to get them out
of his way. Later, when he had passed on, after destroying
the railroads, these men were marched back overland
to Andersonville, and the planters who lived along the
road had hampers filled with such provisions as could be
hastily gotten together and placed before them. Among
those who did this were my sister, Mrs. Troup Butler,
and her neighbors, the Bacons, so frequently mentioned in
this part of the diary. My sister says that she had every
drop of milk and crabber in her dairy brought out and
given to the poor fellows, and she begged the officer to
let them wait till she could have what food she could
spare cooked for them. This, however, being impossible,
she had potatoes and turnips and whatever else could be
eaten raw, hastily collected by the servants and strewn in

the road before them. I have before me, as I write, a
very kind letter from an old Union soldier, in which he
says that he was one of the men fed on this occasion,
and he adds: "I still feel thankful for the help we got
that day." He gives his name as S. S. Andrews, Co. K,
64th Ohio Vols., and his present address as Tularosa,
Mexico.

But it is hardly to be expected that men half-crazed by
suffering and for the most part ignorant of their own
government's responsibility in the matter, should discriminate
very closely in apportioning the blame for their
terrible condition. Accustomed to the bountiful provision
made for its soldiers by the richest nation in the
world, they naturally enough could not see the tragic
humor of their belief, when suddenly reduced to Confederate
army rations, that they were the victims of a
deliberate plot to starve them to death!

Another difficulty with which the officers in charge of
the stockade had to contend was the lack of a sufficient
force to guard so large a body of prisoners. At one time
there were over 35,000 of them at Andersonville alone -
a number exceeding Lee's entire force at the close of
the siege of Petersburg. The men actually available for
guarding this great army, were never more than 1,200 or
1,500, and these were drawn from the State Reserves,
consisting of boys under eighteen and invalided or superannuated
men unfit for active service. At almost any
time during the year 1864-1865, if the prisoners had
realized the weakness of their guard, they could, by a
concerted assault, have overpowered them. At the time
of Kilpatrick's projected raid, their numbers had been
reduced to about 7,500, by distributing the excess to other
points and by the humane action of the Confederate authorities
in releasing, without equivalent, 15,000 sick and

wounded, and actually forcing them, as a free gift, upon
the unwilling hospitality of their own government.

But even allowing for this diminution, the consequences
of turning loose so large a body of men, naturally
incensed and made desperate by suffering, to incite
the negroes and ravage the country, while there were only
women and children and old men left on the plantations
to meet their fury, can hardly be imagined, even by those
who have seen the invasion of an organized army. The
consternation of my father, when he found that he had
sent us into the jaws of this danger instead of the security
and rest he had counted on, cannot be described. Happily,
the danger was over before he knew of its existence,
but communication was so slow and uncertain in those
days that a long correspondence at cross purposes ensued
before his mind was set at rest.

It may seem strange to the modern reader that in the
midst of such tremendous happenings we could find it in
our hearts to go about the common business of life;
to laugh and dance and be merry in spite of the crumbling
of the social fabric about us. But so it has always been;
so it was "in the days of Noe," and so, we are told,
will it be "in the end of the world." Youth will have
its innings, and never was social life in the old South
more full of charm than when tottering to its fall. South-west
Georgia, being the richest agricultural section of
the State, and remote from the scene of military operations,
was a favorite resort at that time for refugees
from all parts of the seceded States, and the society
of every little country town was as cosmopolitan as that
of our largest cities had been before the war. The dearth
of men available for social functions that was so conspicuous
in other parts of the Confederacy remote from
the seat of war, did not exist here, because the importance

of so rich an agricultural region as a source of food
supply for our armies, and the quartering of such large
bodies of prisoners at Andersonville and Millen, necessitated
the presence of a large number of officers connected
with the commissary and quartermaster's departments.
These were, for the most part, men who, on
account of age, or chronic infirmity, or injuries received
in battle, were unfit for service in the field. There were
large hospitals, too, in all the towns and villages to which
disabled soldiers from the front were sent as fast as
they were able to bear the transportation, in order to
relieve the congestion in the neighborhood of the armies.
Those whose wounds debarred them from further service,
and whose homes were in possession of the enemy,
were received into private houses and cared for by the
women of the South till the end of the war.

My sister's white family at the time of our arrival
consisted of herself and two little children, Tom and
Julia, and Mr. Butler's invalid sister, Mrs. Julia Meals, a
pious widow of ample means which it was her chief ambition
in life to spend in doing good. The household was
afterwards increased by the arrival of Mrs. Julia Butler
(also called in the diary, Mrs. Green Butler) the widow
of Mr. Greenlee Butler, who had died not long before
in the army. He was the elder and only brother of my
sister's husband. Col. Maxwell, of Gopher Hill, was an
uncle of my brother-in-law, the owner of several large
plantations, where he was fond of practicing the old-time
Southern hospitality. The "Cousin Bolling" so frequently
mentioned, was Dr. Bolling A. Pope, a stepson
of my mother's youngest sister, Mrs. Alexander Pope,
of Washington, Ga., the "Aunt Cornelia" spoken of in a
later chapter. He was in Berlin when the war began,
where he had spent several years preparing himself as a

specialist in diseases of the eye and ear, but returned
when hostilities began, and was assigned to duty as a
surgeon. The Tallassee Plantation to which reference
is made, was an estate owned by my father near Albany,
Ga., where the family were in the habit of spending the
winters, until he sold it and transferred his principal
planting interests to the Yazoo Delta in Mississippi.
Mt. Enon was a little log church where services were
held by a refugee Baptist minister, and, being the only
place of worship in the neighborhood, was attended by
people of all denominations. The different homes and
families mentioned were those of well-known planters
in that section, or of refugee friends who had temporarily
taken up their abode there.

Jan. 1st, 1865. Sunday. Pine Bluff. - A beautiful
clear day, but none of us went to church. Sister was
afraid of the bad roads, Metta, Mrs. Meals, Julia and
I all sick. I think I am taking measles.

Jan. 1, Wednesday. - I am just getting well of
measles, and a rough time I had of it. Measles is no such
small affair after all, especially when aggravated by
perpetual alarms of Yankee raiders. For the last week
we have lived in a state of incessant fear. All sorts of
rumors come up the road and down it, and we never
know what to believe. Mett and I have received repeated
letters from home urging our immediate return,
but of course it was impossible to travel while I was sick
in bed, and even now I am not strong enough to undertake
that terrible journey across the burnt country
again. While I was ill, home was the one thought

that haunted my brain, and if I ever do get back, I
hope I will have sense enough to stay there. I don't
think I ever suffered so much before in all my life, and
dread of the Yankees raised my fever to such a pitch
that I got no rest by night or day. I used to feel very
brave about Yankees, but since I have passed over
Sherman's track and seen what devastation they
make, I am so afraid of them that I believe I should
drop down dead if one of the wretches should come
into my presence. I would rather face them anywhere
than here in South-West Georgia, for the horrors of
the stockade have so enraged them that they will have
no mercy on this country, though they have brought it
all on themselves, the cruel monsters, by refusing to
exchange prisoners. But it is horrible, and a blot on
the fair name of our Confederacy. Mr. Robert Bacon
says he has accurate information that on the first of
December, 1864, there were 13,010 graves at Anderson.
It is a dreadful record. I shuddered as I passed
the place on the cars, with its tall gibbet full of horrible
suggestiveness before the gate, and its seething
mass of humanity inside, like a swarm of blue flies
crawling over a grave. It is said that the prisoners
have organized their own code of laws among themselves,
and have established courts of justice before
which they try offenders, and that they sometimes
condemn one of their number to death. It is horrible
to think of, but what can we poor Confederates do?
The Yankees won't exchange prisoners, and our own

soldiers in the field don't fare much better than these
poor creatures. Everybody is sorry for them, and
wouldn't keep them here a day if the government at
Washington didn't force them on us. And yet they
lay all the blame on us. Gen. Sherman told Mr. Cuyler
that he did not intend to leave so much as a blade
of grass in South-West Georgia, and Dr. Janes told
sister that he (Sherman) said he would be obliged to
send a formidable raid here in order to satisfy the
clamors of his army, though he himself, the fiend
Sherman, dreaded it on account of the horrors that
would be committed. What Sherman dreads must
indeed be fearful. They say his soldiers have sworn
that they will spare neither man, woman nor child in
all South-West Georgia. It is only a question of
time, I suppose, when all this will be done. It begins
to look as if the Yankees can do whatever they please
and go wherever they wish - except to heaven; I do
fervently pray the good Lord will give us rest from
them there.

While I was at my worst, Mrs. Lawton came out
with her brother-in-law, Mr. George Lawton, and Dr.
Richardson, Medical Director of Bragg's army, to
make sister a visit. The doctor came into my room
and prescribed for me and did me more good by his
cheerful talk than by his prescription. He told me
not to think about the Yankees, and said that he would
come and carry me away himself before I should fall
into their hands. His medicine nearly killed me. It

was a big dose of opium and whisky, that drove me
stark crazy, but when I came to myself I felt much
better. Dr. Janes was my regular physician and had
the merit of not giving much medicine, but he frightened
me horribly with his rumors about Yankee
raiders. We are safe from them for the present, at
any rate, I hope; the swamps of the Altamaha are so
flooded that it would take an army of Tritons to get
over them now.

All this while that I have been sick, Metta has been
going about enjoying herself famously. There is a
party at Mr. Callaway's from Americus, which makes
the neighborhood very gay. Everybody has called,
but I had to stay shut up in my room and miss all the
fun.... Brother Troup has come down from Macon
on a short furlough, bringing with him a Maj. Higgins
from Mississippi, who is much nicer than his name.
He is a cousin of Dr. Richardson. The rest of the
family were out visiting all the morning, leaving me
with Mrs. Meals, who entertained me by reading aloud
from Hannah More. As my eyes are still too weak
from measles for me to read much myself, I was glad
to be edified by Hannah More, rather than be left to
my own dull company. The others came back at
three, and then, just as we were sitting down to
dinner, the Mallarys called and spent the rest of the
day. We ate no supper, but went to bed on an eggnog
at midnight.

again all the morning, leaving me to enjoy life with
Mrs. Meals and Hannah More. The Edwin Bacons
and Merrill Callaway and his bride were invited to
spend the evening with us and I found it rather dull.
I am just sick enough to be a bore to myself and everybody
else. Merrill has married Katy Furlow, of
Americus, and she says that soon after my journey
home last spring she met my young Charlestonian, and
that he went into raptures over me, and said he never
was so delighted with anybody in his life, so it seems
the attraction was mutual. I have a letter from Tolie;
she is living in Montgomery, supremely happy, of
course, as a bride should be. She was sadly disappointed
at my absence from the wedding. The city
is very gay, she says, and everybody inquiring about
me and wanting me to come. If I wasn't afraid the
Yankees might cut me off from home and sister, too,
I would pick up and go now. Yankee, Yankee, is the
one detestable word always ringing in Southern ears.
If all the words of hatred in every language under
heaven were lumped together into one huge epithet of
detestation, they could not tell how I hate Yankees.
They thwart all my plans, murder my friends, and
make my life miserable.

Jan. 13th, Friday. - Col. Blake, a refugee from
Mississippi, and his sister-in-law, Miss Connor, dined
with us. While the gentlemen lingered over their
wine after dinner, we ladies sat in the parlor making
cigarettes for them. The evening was spent at cards,

which bored me not a little, for I hate cards; they are
good for nothing but to entertain stupid visitors with,
and Col. Blake and Miss Connor do not belong in that
category. Mett says she don't like the old colonel because
he is too pompous, but that amuses me, - and
then, he is such a gentleman.

The newspapers bring accounts of terrible floods all
over the country. Three bridges are washed away on
the Montgomery & West Point R.R., so that settles
the question of going to Montgomery for the present.
Our fears about the Yankees are quieted, too, there
being none this side of the Altamaha, and the swamps
impassable.

Jan. 14th, Saturday. - Brother Troup and Maj.
Higgins left for Macon, and sister drove to Albany
with them. She expects to stay there till Monday and
then bring Mrs. Sims out with her. We miss Maj.
Higgins very much; he was good company, in spite of
that horrible name. Jim Chiles called after dinner,
with his usual budget of news, and after him came
Albert Bacon to offer us the use of his father's carriage
while sister has hers in Albany.

Father keeps on writing for us to come home.
Brother Troup says he can send us across the country
from Macon in a government wagon, with Mr. Forline
for an escort, if the rains will ever cease; but we can't
go now on account of the bad roads and the floods up
the country. Bridges are washed away in every direction,
and the water courses impassable.

Jan. 15th, Sunday. - Went to church at Mt. Enon
with Albert Bacon, and saw everybody. It was pleasant
to meet old friends, but I could not help thinking
of poor Annie Chiles's grave at the church door. One
missing in a quiet country neighborhood like this
makes a great gap. This was the Sunday for Dr. Hillyer
to preach to the negroes and administer the communion
to them. They kept awake and looked very
much edified while the singing was going on, but most
of them slept through the sermon. The women were
decked out in all their Sunday finery and looked so
picturesque and happy. It is a pity that this glorious
old plantation life should ever have to come to an end.

Albert Bacon dined with us and we spent the afternoon
planning for a picnic at Mrs. Henry Bacon's lake
on Tuesday or Wednesday. The dear old lake! I
want to see it again before its shores are desecrated by
Yankee feet.

I wish sister would hurry home, on account of the
servants. We can't take control over them, and they
won't do anything except just what they please. As
soon as she had gone, Mr. Ballou, the overseer, took
himself off and only returned late this evening. Harriet,
Mrs. Green Butler's maid, is the most trifling of
the lot, but I can stand anything from her because she
refused to go off with the Yankees when Mrs. Butler
had her in Marietta last summer. Her mother went,
and tried to persuade Harriet to go, too, but she
said: "I loves Miss Julia a heap better'n I do

you," and remained faithful. Sister keeps her here
because Mrs. Butler is a refugee and without a home
herself.

Jan. 16, Monday. - Sister has come back, bringing
dear little Mrs. Sims with her. Metta and I are to
spend next week in Albany with Mrs. Sims, if we are
not all water-bound in the meantime, at Pine Bluff.
The floods are subsiding up the country, but the
waters are raging down here. Flint River is out of
its banks, the low grounds are overflowed, and the
backwater has formed a lake between the negro
quarter and the house, that reaches to within a few
yards of the door. So much the better for us, as Kilpatrick
and his raiders can never make their way
through all these floods.

Sister is greatly troubled about a difficulty two of
her negroes, Jimboy and Alfred, have gotten into.
They are implicated with some others who are accused
of stealing leather and attacking a white man. Alfred
is a great, big, horrid-looking creature, more like an
orang-outang than a man, though they say he is one
of the most peaceable and humble negroes on the
plantation, and Jimboy has never been known to get
into any mischief before. I hope there is some mistake,
though the negroes are getting very unruly since
the Yankees are so near.

Jan. 17, Tuesday. - The river still rising and all the
water-courses so high that I am afraid the stage won't
be able to pass between Albany and Thomasville, and

we sha'n't get our mail. There is always something
the matter to keep us from getting the mail at that
little Gum Pond postoffice. Mrs. Sims is water-bound
with us, and it is funny to hear her and Mrs. Meals,
one a red-hot Episcopalian, the other a red-hot Baptist,
trying to convert each other. If the weather is
any sign, Providence would seem to favor the Baptists
just now.

Mrs. Sims almost made me cry with her account of
poor Mary Millen - her brother dead, their property
destroyed; it is the same sad story over again that we
hear so much of. This dreadful war is bringing ruin
upon so many happy homes.

Jan. 19, Thursday. - I suffered a great disappointment
to-day. Mrs. Stokes Walton gave a big dining
- everybody in the neighborhood, almost everybody
in the county that is anybody was invited. I expected
to wear that beautiful new dress that ran the blockade
and I have had so few opportunities of showing. All
my preparations were made, even the bows of ribbon
pinned on my undersleeves, but I was awakened at
daylight by the pattering of rain on the roof, and
knew that the fun was up for me. It was out of the
question for one just up from an attack of measles to
risk a ride of twelve miles in such a pouring rain, so
I had to content myself to stay at home with the two
old ladies and be edified with disquisitions on the
Apostolic Succession and Baptism by Immersion.
They are both good enough to be translated, and I

can't see why the dear little souls should be so disturbed
about each other's belief. Once, when Mrs.
Meals left the room for some purpose, Mrs. Sims
whispered to me confidentially: "There is so little
gentility among these dissenters - that is one reason
why I hate to see her among them." I could hardly
keep from laughing out, but that is what a good deal
of our religious differences amount to. I confess to
a strong prejudice myself, in favor of the old church
in which I was brought up; still I don't think there
ought to be any distinction of classes or races in religion.
We all have too little "gentility" in the sight
of God for that. I only wish I stood as well in the
recording Angel's book as many a poor negro that I
know.

About noon a cavalryman stopped at the door and
asked for dinner. As we eat late, and the man was
in too big a hurry to wait, sister sent him a cold lunch
out in the entry. It was raining very hard, and the
poor fellow was thoroughly drenched, so after he had
eaten, sister invited him to come into the parlor and
dry himself. It came out, in the course of conversation,
that he was from our own part of Georgia, and
knew a number of good old Wilkes County families.
He was on his way to the Altamaha, he said, and
promised to do his best to keep the raiders from getting
to us.

Jan. 21, Saturday. Albany, Ga. - I never in all my
life knew such furious rains as we had last night; it

seemed as if the heavens themselves were falling upon
us. In addition to the uproar among the elements,
my slumbers were disturbed by frightful dreams about
Garnett. Twice during the night I dreamed that he
was dead and in a state of corruption, and I couldn't
get anybody to bury him. Col. Avery and Capt.
Mackall were somehow mixed up in the horrid vision,
trying to help me, but powerless to do so. In the
morning, when we waked, I found that Metta also
had dreamed of Garnett's death. I am not superstitious,
but I can't help feeling more anxious than usual
to hear news of my darling brother.

The rain held up about dinner time and Mrs. Sims
determined to return to Albany, in spite of high waters
and the threatening aspect of the sky. We went five
miles out of our way to find a place where we could
ford Wright's Creek, and even there the water was
almost swimming. Mett and I were frightened out
of our wits, but Mrs. Sims told us to shut our eyes
and trust to Providence, - and Providence and Uncle
Aby between them brought us through in safety. At
some places in the woods, sheets of water full half a
mile wide and from one to two feet deep were running
across the road, on their way to swell the flood in
Flint River. Sister sent a negro before us on a mule
to see if the water-courses were passable. We had
several bad scares, but reached town in safety a little
after dark.

the night and continued all day. If "the stars in
their courses fought against Sisera," it looks as if
the heavens were doing as much for us against Kilpatrick
and his raiders. There was no service at St.
Paul's, so Mrs. Sims kept Metta and me in the line of
duty by reading aloud High Church books to us. They
were very dull, so I didn't hurt myself listening. After
dinner we read the Church service and sang hymns
until relieved by a call from our old friend, Capt.
Hobbs.

Jan. 24, Tuesday. - Mr. and Mrs. Welsh spent the
evening with us. Jim Chiles came last night and sat
until the chickens crowed for day. Although I like
Jimmy and enjoy his budget of news, I would enjoy
his visits more if he knew when to go away. I never
was so tired and sleepy in my life, and cold, too, for
we had let the fire go out as a hint. When at last we
went to our room I nearly died laughing at the way
Metta had maneuvered to save time. She had loosened
every button and string that she could get at without
being seen, while sitting in the parlor, and had
now only to give herself a good shake and she was
ready for bed.

We spent the morning making calls with Mrs. Sims,
and found among the refugees from South Carolina
a charming old lady, Mrs. Brisbane. Though past
fifty, she is prettier than many a woman of half her
years, and her manners would grace a court. Her
father was an artist of note, and she showed us some

beautiful pictures painted by him. After dinner we
enjoyed some Florida oranges sent by Clinton Spenser,
and they tasted very good, in the absence of West
India fruit.

Jan. 25, Wednesday. - Dined at Judge Vason's,
where there was a large company. He is very hospitable
and his house is always full of people. Albert
Bacon came in from Gum Pond and called in the afternoon,
bringing letters, and the letters brought permission
to remain in South-West Georgia as long as we
please, the panic about Kilpatrick having died out.
I would like to be at home now, if the journey were
not such a hard one. Garnett and Mrs. Elzey are
both there, and Mary Day is constantly expected. I
have not seen Garnett for nearly three years. He has
resigned his position on Gen. Gardiner's staff, and is
going to take command of a battalion of "galvanized
Yankees," with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. I
don't like the scheme. I have no faith in Yankees of
any sort, especially these miserable turncoats that are
ready to sell themselves to either side. There isn't
gold enough in existence to galvanize one of them
into a respectable Confederate.

Jan. 27, Friday. - Mett and I were busy returning
calls all the morning, and Mrs. Sims, always in a
hurry, sent us up to dress for Mrs. Westmoreland's
party as soon as we had swallowed our dinner, so we
were ready by dusk and had to sit waiting with our
precious finery on until our escorts came for us at nine

o'clock. Mrs. Sims is one of these fidgety little bodies
that is always in a rush about everything. She gallops
through the responses in church so fast that she
always comes out long ahead of everybody else, and
even eats so fast that Metta and I nearly choke ourselves
trying to keep up with her. We hardly ever
get enough, as we are ashamed to sit at table too long
after she has finished. I tried one day, when I was
very hungry, to keep up with her in eating a waffle,
but before I had got mine well buttered, hers was
gone. She is such a nice housekeeper, too, and has
such awfully good things that it is tantalizing not to be
able to take time to enjoy them.

The party was delightful. Albany is so full of
charming refugees and Confederate officers and their
families that there is always plenty of good company,
whatever else may be lacking. I danced three sets
with Joe Godfrey, but I don't like the square dances
very much. The Prince Imperial is too slow and
stately, and so complicated that the men never know
what to do with themselves. Even the Lancers are
tame in comparison with a waltz or a galop. I love
the galop and the Deux Temps better than any. We
kept it up till two o'clock in the morning, and then
walked home.

While going our rounds in the morning, we found
a very important person in Peter Louis, a paroled
Yankee prisoner, in the employ of Capt. Bonham.
The captain keeps him out of the stockade, feeds and

clothes him, and in return, reaps the benefit of his
skill. Peter is a French Yankee, * a
shoemaker by
trade, and makes as beautiful shoes as I ever saw
imported from France. My heart quite softened towards
him when I saw his handiwork, and little Mrs.
Sims was so overcome that she gave him a huge slice
of her Confederate fruit cake. I talked French with
him, which pleased him greatly, and Mett and I engaged
him to make us each a pair of shoes. I will
feel like a lady once more, with good shoes on my feet.
I expect the poor Yank is glad to get away from Anderson
on any terms. Although matters have improved
somewhat with the cool weather, the tales that
are told of the condition of things there last summer
are appalling. Mrs. Brisbane heard all about it from
Father Hamilton, a Roman Catholic priest from
Macon, who has been working like a good Samaritan
in those dens of filth and misery. It is a shame to
us Protestants that we have let a Roman Catholic get
so far ahead of us in this work of charity and mercy.
Mrs. Brisbane says Father Hamilton told her that
during the summer the wretched prisoners burrowed
in the ground like moles to protect themselves from
the sun. It was not safe to give them material to
build shanties as they might use it for clubs to overcome

the guard. These underground huts, he said,
were alive with vermin and stank like charnel houses.
Many of the prisoners were stark naked, having not
so much as a shirt to their backs. He told a pitiful
story of a Pole who had no garment but a shirt, and
to make it cover him the better, he put his legs into
the sleeves and tied the tail round his neck. The
others guyed him so on his appearance, and the poor
wretch was so disheartened by suffering, that one day
he deliberately stepped over the deadline and stood
there till the guard was forced to shoot him. But
what I can't understand is that a Pole, of all people
in the world, should come over here and try to take
away our liberty when his own country is in the hands
of oppressors. One would think that the Poles, of
all nations in the world, ought to sympathize with a
people fighting for their liberties. Father Hamilton
said that at one time the prisoners died at the rate
of 150 a day, and he saw some of them die on the
ground without a rag to lie on or a garment to cover
them. Dysentery was the most fatal disease, and as
they lay on the ground in their own excrements, the
smell was so horrible that the good father says he was
often obliged to rush from their presence to get a
breath of pure air. It is dreadful. My heart aches
for the poor wretches, Yankees though they are, and
I am afraid God will suffer some terrible retribution
to fall upon us for letting such things happen. If the
Yankees ever should come to South-West Georgia,

and go to Anderson and see the graves there, God
have mercy on the land! And yet, what can we do?
The Yankees themselves are really more to blame than
we, for they won't exchange these prisoners, and our
poor, hard-pressed Confederacy has not the means to
provide for them, when our own soldiers are starving
in the field. Oh, what a horrible thing war is when
stripped of all its "pomp and circumstance"!

Jan. 28, Saturday. - We left Albany at an early
hour. Albert Bacon rode out home in the carriage
with us, and I did the best I could for him by pretending
to be too sleepy to talk and so leaving him free to
devote himself to Mett. Fortunately, the roads have
improved since last Saturday, and we were not so
long on the way. We found sister busy with preparations
for Julia's birthday party, which came off in
the afternoon. All the children in the neighborhood
were invited and most of the grown people, too. The
youngsters were turned loose in the backyard to play
King's Base, Miley Bright, &c., and before we knew it,
we grown people found ourselves as deep in the fun
as the children. In the midst of it all a servant came
up on horseback with a letter for sister. It proved to
be a note from Capt. Hines bespeaking her hospitality
for Gen. Sam Jones and staff, and of course she
couldn't refuse, though the house was crowded to
overflowing already. She had hardly finished reading
when a whole cavalcade of horses and government
wagons came rattling up to the door, and the general

and one of his aides helped two ladies and their children
to alight from an ambulance in which they were
traveling. When they saw what a party we had on
hand, they seemed a little embarrassed, but sister
laughed away their fears, and sent the children out to
join the others in the backyard and left the ladies, who
were introduced as Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Creighton,
with their escorts, in the parlor, while she went out
to give orders about supper and make arrangements
for their accommodation. Mrs. Meals, Metta, and I
hustled out of our rooms and doubled up with sister
and the children. Everybody was stowed away somewhere,
when, just before bedtime, two more aides,
Capt. Warwick, of Richmond, and Capt. Frazer, of
Charleston, rode up and were invited to come in,
though the house was so crowded that sister had not
even a pallet on the floor to offer them. All she could
do was to give them some pillows and tell them they
were welcome to stay in the parlor if they could make
themselves comfortable there. People are used to
putting up with any sort of accommodations these
times and they seemed very glad of the shelter. They
said it was a great deal better than camping out in the
wagons, as they had been doing, and with the help of
the parlor rugs and their overcoats and army blankets,
they could make themselves very comfortable. They
were regular thoroughbreds, we could see, and Capt.
Frazer one of the handsomest men I ever laid my
eyes on - a great, big, splendid, fair-haired giant,

that might have been a Viking leader if he had lived
a thousand years ago.

Sister has been so put out by Mr. Ballou that I don't
see how she could keep her temper well enough to be
polite to anybody. He has packed up and taken himself
off, leaving her without an overseer, after giving
but one day's notice, and she has the whole responsibility
of the plantation and all these negroes on her
hands. It was disgraceful for him to treat her so,
and Brother Troup off at the war, too.

Jan. 29, Sunday. - Breakfast early so as to let our
general and staff proceed on their way, as they said
they wanted to make an early start. Gen. Jones has
recently been appointed commandant of the Department
of South Georgia and Florida, with headquarters
at Tallahassee. It was nearly eleven o'clock
before they got off. Mr. Robert Bacon says he met
them on their way, and they told him they were so
pleased with their entertainment at sister's that they
wished they could have staid a day or two longer. I
had a good long talk with the two young captains before
they left and they were just as nice as they could
be. We found that we had a number of common
friends, and Capt. Warwick knows quite well the Miss
Lou Randolph in Richmond that Garnett writes so
much about, and Rosalie Beirne,* too.

Just before bedtime we
were startled by heavy steps
and a loud knocking at the front door. Having no

white man within three miles, even an overseer,
we were a little startled, but mustered courage, sister,
Mett, and I, followed by two or three of the negroes,
to go to the door. Instead of a stray Yankee, or a
squad of deserters, we confronted a smart young Confederate
officer in such a fine new uniform that the
sight of it nearly took our breath away. He said he
was going to the Cochran plantation, but got lost in
the pond back of our house and had come in to inquire
his way. Sister invited him into the sitting-room,
and he sat there talking with us till one of the servants
could saddle a mule and go with him to show him the
road. Sister said she felt mean for not inviting him
to spend the night, but she was too tired and worried
to entertain another guest now, if the fate of the Confederacy
depended on it. His uniform was too fresh
and new anyway to look very heroic.

Jan. 31, Tuesday. - Sister and I spent the morning
making calls. At the tithing agent's office, where she
stopped to see about her taxes, we saw a battalion of
Wheeler's cavalry, which is to be encamped in our
neighborhood for several weeks. Their business is to
gather up and take care of broken-down horses, so as
to fit them for use again in baggage trains and the
like. At the postoffice a letter was given me, which
I opened and read, thinking it was for me. It began
"Dear Ideal" and was signed "Yours forever." I
thought at first that Capt. Hobbs or Albert Bacon was
playing a joke on me, but on making inquiry at the

office, I learned that there is a cracker girl named
Fanny Andrews living down somewhere near Gum
Pond, for whom, no doubt, the letter was intended;
so I remailed it to her.

As we were sitting in the parlor after supper, there
was another lumbering noise of heavy feet on the
front steps, but it was caused by a very different sort
of visitor from the one we had Sunday night. A
poor, cadaverous fellow came limping into the room,
and said he was a wounded soldier, looking for work
as an overseer. He gave his name as Etheridge, and
I suspect, from his manner, that he is some poor fellow
who has seen better days. Sister engaged him on the
spot, for one month, as an experiment, though she is
afraid he will not be equal to the work.

Feb. 2, Thursday. - We spent the evening at Maj.
Edwin Bacon's, rehearsing for tableaux and theatricals,
and I never enjoyed an evening more. We had
no end of fun, and a splendid supper, with ice cream
and sherbet and cake made of real white sugar. I
like the programme, too, and my part in it, though I
made some of the others mad by my flat refusal to
make myself ridiculous by taking the part of the peri
in a scene from Lalla Rookh. Imagine poor little
ugly me setting up for a pert! Wouldn't people laugh!
I must have parts with some acting; I can't run on my
looks. The entertainment is to take place at sister's,
and all the neighborhood and a number of people from
Albany will be invited. The stage will be erected in

the wide back entry, between sister's room and the
dining-room, which will serve for dressing-rooms.
After the rehearsal came a display of costumes and
a busy devising of dresses, which interested me very
much. I do love pretty clothes, and it has been my
fate to live in these hard war times, when one can
have so little.

Feb. 4, Saturday. - We met in the schoolhouse at
Mt. Enon to rehearse our parts, but everybody seemed
out of sorts and I never spent a more disagreeable two
hours. Mett wouldn't act the peri because she had
had a quarrel with her penitent, and Miss Lou Bacon
said she couldn't take the part of Esther before Ahasuerus
unless she could wear white kid gloves, because
she had burnt one of her fingers pulling candy, and a
sore finger would spoil the looks of her hand. Think
of Esther touching the golden scepter with a pair of
modern white kid gloves on! It would be as bad as
me for a peri. Mett and Miss Lou are our beauties,
and if they fail us, the whole thing falls through.

Feb. 5, Sunday. - Went to church at Mt. Enon, and
did my best to listen to Dr. Hillyer, but there were so
many troops passing along the road that I could keep
neither thoughts nor my eyes from wandering.
Jim Chiles came home to dinner with us. He always
has so much news to tell that he is as good as the
county paper, and much more reliable. I have a letter
from Lily Legriel * asking me to make her
a visit

before I go home. She is refugeeing in Macon, and
I think I will stop a few days as I pass through.

Feb. 9, Thursday. - We are in Albany - Mett, Mrs.
Meals, and I - on our way to Americus, where I am
going to consult Cousin Bolling Pope about my eyes.
They have been troubling me ever since I had measles.
We had hardly got our hats off when Jim Chiles came
panting up the steps. He had seen the carriage pass
through town and must run round at once to see if a
sudden notion had struck us to go home. After tea
came Capt. Hobbs, the Welshes, and a Mr. Green, of
Columbus, to spend the evening. Mrs. Welsh gives
a large party next Thursday night, to which we are
invited, and she also wants me to stay over and take
part in some theatricals for the benefit of the hospitals,
but I have had enough of worrying with amateur
theatricals for the present.

Feb. to, Friday. - We had to get up very early to
catch the seven o'clock train to Americus. Jim met
us at the dépot, though there were so many of our
acquaintances on board that we had no special need
of an escort. Mr. George Lawton sat by me all the
way from Smithville to Americus, and insisted on our
paying his family a visit before leaving South-West
Georgia. I wish I could go, for he lives near father's
old Tallassee plantation where I had such happy times
in my childhood; but if we were to accept all the invitations
that come to us, we would never get back
home again. We reached Americus at ten and went

straight to Cousin Bolling's hospital. He was not
there, but Dr. Howard, his assistant, told us he was
in the village and would be at the office in a few minutes.
All along the streets, as we were making our
way from the dépot to the hospital, we could recognize
his patients going about with patches and shades and
blue spectacles over their eyes, and some of them had
blue or green veils on. We didn't care to wait at the
hospital in all that crowd of men, so we started out to
visit the shops, intending to return later and meet
Cousin Bolling. We had gone only a few steps when
we saw him coming toward us. His first words were
the announcement that he was married! I couldn't
believe him at first, and thought he was joking. Then
he insisted that we should go home with him and see
our new cousin. We felt doubtful about displaying
our patched up Confederate traveling suits before a
brand new bride from beyond the blockade, with trunk
loads of new things, but curiosity got the better of us,
and so we agreed to go home with him. He is occupying
Col. Maxwell's house while the family are on the
plantation in Lee county. When we reached the
house with Cousin Bolling, Mrs. Pope - or "Cousin
Bessie," as she says we must call her now, made us
feel easy by sending for us to come to her bedroom, as
there was no fire in the parlor, and she would not
make company of us. She was a Mrs. Ayres, before
her marriage to Cousin Bolling, a young widow from
Memphis, Tenn., and very prominent in society there.

She is quite handsome, and, having just come from
beyond the lines, her beautiful dresses were a revelation
to us dowdy Confederates, and made me feel like
a plucked peacock. Her hair was arranged in three
rolls over the top of the head, on each side of the part,
in the style called "cats, rats, and mice," on account
of the different size of the rolls, the top one being the
largest. It was very stylish. I wish my hair was
long enough to dress that way, for I am getting very
tired of frizzes; they are so much trouble, and always
will come out in wet weather. We were so much interested
that we stayed at Cousin Bolling's too long and
had to run nearly all the way back to the dépot in order
to catch our train. On the cars I met the very last man
I would have expected to see in this part of the world
- my Boston friend, Mr. Adams. He said he was on
his way to take charge of a Presbyterian church in
Eufaula, Ala. He had on a broadcloth coat and a
stovepipe hat, which are so unlike anything worn by
our Confederate men that I felt uncomfortably conspicuous
while he was with me. I am almost ashamed,
nowadays, to be seen with any man not in uniform,
though Mr. Adams, being a Northern man and a minister,
could not, of course, be expected to go into the
army. I believe he is sincere in his Southern sympathies,
but his Yankee manners and lingo "sorter riles"
me, as the darkies say, in spite of reason and common
sense. He talked religion all the way to Smithville,
and parted with some pretty sentiment about the

"sunbeam I had thrown across his path." I don't
enjoy that sort of talk from men; I like dash and flash
and fire in talk, as in action.

We reached Albany at four o'clock, and after a
little visit to Mrs. Sims, started home, where we arrived
soon after dark, without any adventure except
being nearly drowned in the ford at Wright's Creek.

Feb. 11, Saturday. - Making visits all day. It takes
a long time to return calls when people live so far
apart and every mile or two we have to go out of our
way to avoid high waters. Stokes Walton's creek
runs underground for several miles, so that when the
waters are high we leave the main road and cross
where it disappears underground. There is so much
water now that the subterranean channel can't hold it
all, so it flows below and overflows above ground,
making a two-storied stream. It is very broad and
shallow at that place, and beautifully clear. It would
be a charming place for a boating excursion because
the water is not deep enough to drown anybody if they
should fall overboard - but if the bottom should drop
out of the road, as sometimes happens in this limestone
country, where in the name of heaven would
we go to?

Sister and I spent the evening at Mrs. Robert
Bacon's. The Camps, the Edwin Bacons, Capt.
Wynne, and Mrs. Westmoreland were there. We enjoyed
ourselves so much that we didn't break up till
one o'clock Sunday morning. Mrs. Westmoreland

says she gave Capt. Sailes a letter of introduction to
me, thinking I had gone back to Washington. He
and John Garnett, one of our far-off Virginia cousins,
have been transferred there.

Feb. 12, Sunday. - Spring is already breaking in
this heavenly climate, and the weather has been lovely
to-day. The yellow jessamine buds begin to show
their golden tips, forget-me-nots are peeping from
under the wire grass, and the old cherry tree by the
dairy is full of green leaves. Spring is so beautiful; I
don't wonder the spring poet breaks loose then. Our
"piney woods" don't enjoy a very poetical reputation,
but at this season they are the most beautiful place in
the world to me.

I went over to the quarter after dinner, to the
"Praise House," to hear the negroes sing, but most
of them had gone to walk on the river bank, so I did
not get a full choir. At their "praise meetings" they
go through with all sorts of motions in connection
with their songs, but they won't give way to their
wildest gesticulations or engage in their sacred dances
before white people, for fear of being laughed at.
They didn't get out of their seats while I was there,
but whenever the "sperrit" of the song moved them
very much, would pat their feet and flap their arms
and go through with a number of motions that reminded
me of the game of "Old Dame Wiggins" that
we used to play when we were children. They call
these native airs "little speritual songs," in contradistinction

to the hymns that the preachers read to them
in church, out of a book, and seem to enjoy them a
great deal more. One of them has a quick, lively
melody, which they sing to a string of words like
these:

and so on, through as
many Bible names as they could
think of. Another of their "sperrituals" runs on
this wise:

"I meet my soul at de bar of God,
I heerd a mighty lumber.
Hit was my sin fell down to hell
Jes' like a clap er thunder.
Mary she come runnin' by,
Tell how she weep en' wonder.
Mary washin' up Jesus' feet,
De angel walkin' up de golden street,
Run home, believer; oh, run home, believer!
Run home, believer, run home."

Another one, sung to a
kind of chant, begins this way:

"King Jesus he tell you
Fur to fetch 'im a hoss en' a mule;
He tek up Mary behine 'im,
King Jesus he went marchin' befo'.

CHORUS. -
Christ was born on Chris'mus day;
Mary was in pain.
Christ was born on Chris'mus day,
King Jesus was his name."

The chorus to another of
their songs is:

"I knowed it was a angel,
I knowed it by de groanin'."

I mean to make a
collection of these songs some
day and keep them as a curiosity. The words are
mostly endless repetitions, with a wild jumble of misfit
Scriptural allusions, but the tunes are inspiring.
They are mostly a sort of weird chant that makes
me feel all out of myself when I hear it way in the
night, too far off to catch the words. I wish I was
musician enough to write down the melodies; they
are worth preserving.

Feb. 13,
Monday. - Letters from home. Our house
is full of company, as it always is, only more so. All
the Morgans are there, and Mary Day, and the Gairdners
from Augusta, besides a host of what one might
call transients, if father was keeping a hotel - friends,
acquaintances, and strangers whom the tide of war
has stranded in little Washington. Mrs. Gairdner's
husband was an officer in the English army at Waterloo,
and a schoolmate of Lord Byron, and her sons
are brave Confederates - which is better than anything
else. Mary Day had typhoid fever in Augusta.
She is too weak to make the journey from Mayfield

to Macon, and all non-combatants have been ordered
to leave Augusta, so mother invited her to Haywood.
Oh, that dear old home! I know it is sweeter than
ever now, with all those delightful people gathered
there. One good thing the war has done among
many evils; it has brought us into contact with so
many pleasant people we should never have known
otherwise. I know it must be charming to have all
those nice army officers around, and I do want to go
back, but it is so nice here, too, that we have decided
to stay a little longer. Father says that this is the
best place for us now that Kilpatrick's raiders are out
of the way. I wish I could be in both places at once.
They write us that little Washington has gotten to be
the great thoroughfare of the Confederacy now, since
Sherman has cut the South Carolina R.R. and the only
line of communication between Virginia and this part
of the country, from which the army draws its supplies,
is through there and Abbeville. This was the
old stage route before there were any railroads, and
our first "rebel" president traveled over it in returning
from his Southern tour nearly three-quarters of a
century ago, when he spent a night with Col. Alison
in Washington. It was a different thing being a
rebel in those days and now. I wonder the Yankees
don't remember they were rebels once, themselves.

Mrs. Meals asked me to go with her in the afternoon
to visit some of the cracker people in our neighborhood
and try to collect their children into a Sunday

school which the dear, pious little soul proposes to
open at Pine Bluff after the manner of Hannah More.
At one place, where the parents were away from home,
the children ran away from us in a fright, and hid
behind their cabin. I went after them, and capturing
one little boy, soon made friends with him, and got
him to bring the others to me. I was surprised to
find the wife of our nearest cracker neighbor, who
lives just beyond the lime sink, in a cabin that Brother
Troup wouldn't put one of his negroes into, a remarkably
handsome woman, in spite of the dirt and ignorance
in which she lives. Her features are as regular
and delicate as those of a Grecian statue, and her hair
of a rich old mahogany color that I suppose an artist
would call Titian red. It was so abundant that she could
hardly keep it tucked up on her head. She was dirty
and unkempt, and her clothing hardly met the requirements
of decency, but all that could not conceal her
uncommon beauty. I would give half I am worth for
her flashing black eyes. We found that her oldest
child is thirteen years old, and has never been inside
a church, though Mt. Enon is only three miles away.
I can't understand what makes these people live so.
The father owns 600 acres of good pine land, and if
there was anything in him, ought to make a good
living for his family.

After supper we amused ourselves getting up valentines.
Everybody in the neighborhood has agreed to
send one to Jim Chiles, so he will get a cartload of

them. I made up seven stanzas of absurd trash to
Capt. Hobbs, every one ending with a rhyme on his
name, the last being:

"Oh, how my heart bobs
At the very name of Richard Hobbs."

Feb. 16,
Thursday. - We started for Albany for
Mrs. Welsh's party, soon after breakfast, but were a
good deal delayed on the way by having to wait for
a train of forty government wagons to pass. We
found Mrs. Julia Butler at Mrs. Sims's, straight from
Washington, with letters for us, and plenty of news.
I feel anxious to get back now, since Washington is
going to be such a center of interest. If the Yanks
take Augusta, it will become the headquarters of the
department. Mrs. Butler says a train of 300 wagons
runs between there and Abbeville, and they are surveying
a railroad route. Several regiments are stationed
there and the town is alive with army officers
and government officials. How strange all this seems
for dear, quiet little Washington! It must be delightful
there, with all those nice army officers. I am
going back home as soon as I can decently change my
mind. I have been at the rear all during the war,
and now that I have a chance, I want to go to the
front. I wish I could be here and there, too, at the
same time.

We were fairly besieged with visitors till time to
dress for the party. Miss Pyncheon dined with us,

and Gardiner Montgomery is staying in the house, and
I can't tell how many other people dropped in. It
was all perfectly delightful. Capt. Hobbs and Dr.
Pyncheon offered themselves as escorts, but we had
already made engagements with Albert Bacon and
Jim Chiles. We gave Miss Pyncheon and Dr. Sloane
seats in our carriage, and we six cliqued together a
good deal during the evening, and had a fine time of it.
I never did enjoy a party more and never had less to
say about one. I had not a single adventure during
the entire evening. Metta was the belle, par excellence,
but Miss Pyncheon and I were not very far behind,
and I think I was ahead of them all in my dress.
Miss Pyncheon wore a white puffed tarleton, with
pearls and white flowers. The dress, though beautiful,
was not becoming because the one fault of her
fine, aristocratic face is want of color. A little rouge
and sepia would improve her greatly, if a nice girl
could make up her mind to use them. Mett wore
white suisse with festoon flounces, over my old blue
Florence silk skirt, the flounces, like charity, covering
a multitude of faults. She was a long way the prettiest
one in the room, though her hair is too short to be
done up stylishly. But my dress was a masterpiece
[sic!] though patched up, like everybody else's, out
of old finery that would have been cast off years ago,
but for the blockade. I wore a white barred organdy
with a black lace flounce round the bottom that completely
hid the rents made at dances in Montgomery

last winter, and a wide black lace bow and ends in
the back, to match the flounce. Handsome lace will
make almost anything look respectable, and I thank
my stars there was a good deal of it in the family
before the Yankees shut us off by their horrid blockade.
My waist was of light puffed blonde, very fluffy,
made out of the skirt I wore at Henry's wedding, and
trimmed round the neck and sleeves with ruchings
edged with narrow black lace. My hair was frizzed
in front, with a cluster of white hyacinths surmounting
the top row of curls, and a beautifully embroidered
butterfly Aunt Sallie had made for me half-hidden
among them, as if seeking its way to the flowers. My
train was very long, but I pinned it up like a tunic,
over a billowy flounced muslin petticoat, while dancing.
My toilet was very much admired, and I had a
great many compliments about it and everybody turned
to look at it as I passed, which put me in good spirits.
We danced eighteen sets, and I was on the floor every
time, besides all the round dances, and between times
there were always three or four around talking to me.
Mett says it counts a great deal more to have one
very devoted at a time, but that keeps the others away,
and I think it is much nicer to have a crowd around
you all the time. One man grows tiresome unless you
expect to marry him, and I am never going to marry
anybody. Marriage is incompatible with the career I
have marked out for myself, but I want to have all
the fun I can before I am too old.... Among others

I met my old acquaintance, Mr. Draper, who was one
of the attendants at Henry's wedding. He says I
have changed a great deal, and look just like Mett did
then. I suppose I may take this as a double-barreled
compliment, as Metta is the beauty of the family and
she was then only fifteen, while I am now twenty-four!
Oh, how time does fly, and how fast we grow old!
But there is one comfort when a woman doesn't depend
upon looks; she lasts longer.

Capt. Hobbs has got his valentine, and everybody
is laughing about it. They were all so sure it came
from me that Dr. Conolly and the captain put their
heads together and wrote a reply that they were going
to send me, but I threw them off the track so completely,
that they are now convinced that it came from
Merrill Callaway. Even Albert Bacon is fooled, and
it is he that told me all Capt. Hobbs and the others
said about it, and of their having suspected me. I
pretended a great deal of curiosity and asked what
sort of poetry it was. Mr. Bacon then repeated some
of my own ridiculous rhymes to me. "It is a capital
thing," he said, shaking with laughter, "only a little
hard on Hobbs."

"It is just like Merrill," said I; "but I am sorry
the captain found out I didn't send it before mailing
his reply." I am going to tell them better in a few
days and let them see how royally they have been
fooled.

Pyncheon out to Pine Bluff with us, but Mrs. Butler
had the only vacant seat in the carriage. I felt stupid
and sleepy all day, for it was after four o'clock in the
morning when I got home from the party and went
to bed. I took a walk with the children after dinner,
to the lime sink back of the newground. The sink is
half full of water from an overflowed cypress pond
just this side of Mt. Enon. The water runs in a clear
stream down a little declivity - something very uncommon
in this flat country - in finding its way to the
sink, and makes a lovely little waterfall. There is a subterranean
outlet from the sink, for it never overflows
except in times of unusually heavy rain. It makes a
diminutive lake, which is full of small fish, and the
banks are bordered with willow oaks and tall shrubs
aglow with yellow jessamine. An old man was
seated on the bank fishing, as we approached, making
a very pretty picture.

Feb. 21, Tuesday. - A letter from Mecca Joyner,
saying she is coming to make me ha visit, and I must
meet her in Albany on Wednesday. Just as I had
finished reading it a buggy drove up with Flora Maxwell
and Capt. Rust, from Gopher Hill. Flora has a
great reputation for beauty, but I think her even more
fascinating and elegant than beautiful. Capt. Rust is
an exile from Delaware, and a very nice old gentleman,
whom the Maxwells think a great deal of. He
was banished for helping Southern prisoners to escape
across the lines. He tells me that he sometimes had

Albert Bacon called after tea and told us all about
the Hobbs poetry, and teased me a good deal at first
by pretending that Capt. Hobbs was very angry. He
says everybody is talking about it and asking for
copies. I had no idea of making such a stir by my
little joke. Metta and I were invited to spend this
week at Stokes Walton's, but company at home prevented.
We are going to have a picnic at the Henry
Bacons' lake on Thursday, and the week after we
expect to begin our journey home in good earnest.
Sister is going to visit Brother Troup in Macon at
the same time, and a large party from Albany will
go that far with us. I have so much company and
so much running about to do that I can't find time for
anything else. I have scribbled this off while waiting
for breakfast.

Feb. 22, Wednesday. - I went to Albany and
brought Mecca Joyner and Jim Chiles home with me.
I took dinner with Mrs. Sims and met several friends,
whom I invited to our picnic. Sister had a large company
to spend the evening, and they stayed so late
that I grew very sleepy. I am all upset, anyway, for
letters from home have come advising us to stay here
for the present, where there is plenty to eat, and less
danger from Yankees now, than almost anywhere
else. It must be perversity, for when I thought I had
to go home I wanted to stay here, and now that father

wants me to stay, I am wild to go. I have written
him that he had better order me back home, for then
I would not care so much about going. Now that
the Yanks have passed by Augusta and are making
their way to Columbia and Charleston, I hope they
will give Georgia a rest.

Feb. 23, Thursday. - The picnic was stupid. It
must be that I am getting tired of seeing the same
faces so often. Albert Bacon and Jim Chiles came
home with us, and we enjoyed the evening. Capt.
Rust is a dear old fellow, and Miss Connor and Maj.
Camp added a little variety. Capt. Rust and Mr.
Bacon proposed a ride across country for the morning,
but there is not a riding habit in the family, nor a
piece of cloth big enough to make one. I ruined mine
in those fox hunts at Chunnenuggee Ridge last fall.
Flora is a famous horsewoman, and I know she must
be a good rider, for her every movement is grace
itself. She is one of those people that gains upon you
on acquaintance. She is so out of the commonplace.
There is something stately and a little cold about her
that reminds me of a beautiful lily, and yet there
is a fascination about her that attracts everybody.
All the men that come near her go wild over
her, and I don't wonder. If I could write a novel, I
would make her the heroine. She seems to stand on
a higher plane than we common mortals, without intending
or knowing it. Her simplicity and straightforwardness
are her greatest charm.

Feb. 26, Sunday. - Flora and the captain have returned
to Gopher Hill, whither Metta, Mecca, and I
are invited to follow on Friday, when sister goes up
to Macon. Jimmy Callaway and his father have just
come from Washington with such glowing accounts
of the excitement and gayety there that I am distracted
to go back home. If father don't write for
us to come soon, I think we will go to Chunnenuggee
by way of Eufaula and the Chattahoochee, and if
Thomas's raiders catch us over in Alabama, father
will wish he had let us come home.

After dinner I took Mecca over to the Praise House
to hear the negroes sing. I wish I was an artist so
that I could draw a picture of the scene. Alfred, one
of the chief singers, is a gigantic creature, more like
an ape than a man. I have seen pictures of African
savages in books of travel that were just like him. His
hands and feet are so huge that it looks as if their
weight would crush the heads of the little piccaninnies
when he pats them; yet, with all this strength, they
say he is a great coward, and one of the most docile
negroes on the plantation. The women, when they
get excited with the singing, shut their eyes and rock
themselves back and forth, clapping their hands, and
in the intervals, when not moved by the "sperrit,"
occupy themselves hunting for lice in their children's
heads. Old Bob and Jim are the preachers, and very
good old darkies they are, in spite of their religion.
But the chief personages on the plantation are old

Granny Mimey, old Uncle Wally, and Uncle Setley,
who are all superannuated and privileged characters.
I tell sister that Uncle Wally has nothing to do, and
Uncle Setley to help him. The latter is very deaf,
and half crazy, but harmless. I am a special favorite
of Uncle Wally's. We have a chat every morning
when he passes through the back yard on his way to
the cowpen. The other day he said to me: "You is
de putties lady ever I seed; you looks jes' lack one er
dese heer alablastered dolls."

We walked to the bluff on the river bank, after
leaving the quarter, and sat there a long time talking.
Spring is here in earnest. The yellow jessamines are
bursting into bloom, and the air is fragrant with the
wild crab apples.

March 1, Wednesday. - The weather has been so
bad that we are thrown upon our own resources for
amusement. Metta and Mecca play cards and backgammon
most of the time, and Albert Bacon comes
almost every day on some pretense or other. One
very dark night when he was here, we told ghost
stories till we frightened ourselves half to death, and
had to beg him to stay all night to keep the bogies off.
Mett and I take long tramps in the afternoons through
mist and mud, but Mec does not like to walk. The
lime sink is particularly attractive just now. The
little stream that feeds it is swollen by the rains, and
dashes along with a great noise. It is so full of little
fish that one can catch them in the hand, and the swans

go there to feed on them. The whole wood is fragrant
with yellow jessamines and carpeted with
flowers.

Another letter from home that makes me more
eager than ever to return. Gen. Elzey and staff are
at our house, and the town is full of people that I
want to see.

March 2, Thursday. - We left Pine Bluff at eleven
o'clock and reached the Blue Spring in time for lunch.
Albert Bacon and Jimmy Chiles were there to meet us.
Hang a petticoat on a bean pole and carry it where
you will, Jimmy will follow. The river is so high
that its muddy waters have backed up into the spring
and destroyed its beauty, but we enjoyed the glorious
flowers that bloom around it, and saw some brilliant
birds of a kind that were new to me. Mr. Bacon said
he would kill one and give me to trim my hat.

March 3, Friday. Gopher Hill. - Up at daybreak,
and on the train, ready to leave Albany. Albert and
Jimmy were there, of course, besides a number of
Albany people who had come to see us off - a great
compliment at that heathenish hour. We got off at
Wooten's Station, only twelve miles from Albany.
Flora and Capt. Rust were there to meet us with
conveyances for Gopher Hill. It is worth the journey
from Pine Bluff to Gopher Hill just to travel over
the road between there and Wooten's. It runs nearly
all the way through swamps alive with the beauty
and fragrance of spring. We passed through Starkesville

and crossed Muckolee Creek at the very spot
where I had such an adventurous night in my childhood,
traveling in the old stage coach that used to run
between Macon and Albany. The swamps were overflowed
then and we had to cross the creek in a canoe,
and Cousin Bolling held me in his lap to keep me from
falling out. On the other side of the creek, towards
Gopher Hill, we came to an old Indian clearing where
are some magnificent willow oaks that I recognized
distinctly, though it is fourteen years since then.

Gopher Hill is seven miles from the station. It is
like most plantation houses in this part of the world,
where they are used only for camping a few weeks in
winter - or were, before the war - a big, one-storied
log cabin, or rather, a combination of cabins spread
out over a full half acre of ground, and even then
with hardly room enough to accommodate the army
of guests the family gather about them when they
go to the country. On each side of the avenue leading
to the house is a small lake, and about two miles back
in the plantation, a large one on which Flora has a
row-boat. She has a beautiful pony named Fleet, that
is the counterpart of our own dear little Dixie. Col.
Maxwell has a great many fine horses and all sorts of
conveyances, which are at the service of his guests.
He is one of the most aristocratic-looking old gentlemen
I ever saw. In manners, appearance, and disposition,
he is strikingly like Brother Troup, except that
the colonel is very large and commanding, while

Brother Troup is small and dapper. He is very handsome
- next to Bishop Elliot, one of the finest specimens
of Southern manhood I ever saw. It is one of
the cases where blood will tell, for he has the best of
Georgia in his veins, or to go back further, the best
in old Scotland itself. Though over sixty years old,
he has never been out of the State, and is as full of
whims and prejudices as the traditional old country
squire that we read about in English novels. His
present wife, Flora's stepmother, is much younger
than he, very gay and witty, and escapes all worry
by taking a humorous view of him and his crotchets.
He and Flora idolize each other, and she is the only
person that can do anything with him, and not always
even she, when he once gets his head fast set.

We had dinner at two o'clock, and afterwards went
to a country school about two miles away, to hear
the boys and girls declaim. The schoolmaster made
so many facetious remarks about the ladies, that I
asked Flora if he was a widower - he seemed too silly
to be anything else - but she says he has a wife living;
poor thing. We met Gen. Graves * at the
schoolhouse
and he rode back with us. We took to the
woods and jumped our horses over every log we came
to, just to see what he would do.

March 4,
Saturday. - ... I had just finished writing
some letters when Gen. Graves and Mr. Baldwin **

were announced and I went to the parlor. The general
is consumedly in love with Flora, and Mr. Baldwin
equally so with his bottle, but is nice-looking, and
when not too far gone, quite agreeable. It is amusing
to see good old Capt. Rust watching over him and
trying to keep temptation out of his way. He stole
the bottle out of his bedroom the first chance he could
find, but not until the poor fellow had got more of it
than was good for him. The weather cleared up
after dinner and we went to Coney Lake, where the
boat is - Flora and I on horseback, the rest in buggies
and carriages. It is a beautiful place. Great avenues
of cypress extend into the shallow waters near the
shore, where we could float about in shady canals and
gather the curious wild plants that grow there. Huge
water lilies with stems like ropes and leaves as big as
palm-leaf fans, float about in shady canals and
great lotus plants, with their curious funnel-shaped
pods and umbrella-like leaves, line the shores and
shallows. The lake is so deep in the center that it
has never been fathomed, being connected, probably,
with a lime sink or an underground stream; but its
waters are clear as crystal, and where they are shallow
enough to show the bottom, all kinds of curious
aquatic plants can be seen growing there in the wildest
luxuriance. I took my first row with Mr. Baldwin,
and wished myself back on shore before we had made
twenty strokes. He was just far enough gone to be
reckless, and frightened me nearly out of my wits by

rocking the boat till the gunwales dipped in the
water, and then tried to pacify me with maudlin talk
about swimming ashore with me if it should capsize.
I picked up a paddle and tried to row the boat myself,
and then he got interested in teaching me, and finally
we came safe to land. I went out again with Capt.
Rust, and enjoyed the last trip more than any. We
were followed by an alligator, and Capt. Rust gathered
for me some of the curious plants that were floating
on the water. It was late when we started back to
the house, and the ride was glorious. Flora and I
amused ourselves by going through the woods and
making our horses jump the highest logs we could
find. Fleet was so full of spirit that I could hardly
hold him in.

March 5, Sunday. - One of the loveliest days I ever
saw. We went to a little Methodist church in Starkesville,
for the pleasure of the drive.

After dinner we walked to the Bubbling Spring,
and killed a big snake on the way. The spring is
down in a gully, and is simply the mouth of a small
underground stream that comes to the surface there.
It throws up a kind of black sand that rises on the
water like smoke from the stack of a steam engine.
The water under ground makes strange sounds, like
voices wailing and groaning. Just below the spring
is a little natural bridge, the most romantic spot I
have seen in the neighborhood. The rocks that
border the stream are covered with ferns and brilliant

green mosses and liverworts. Palmettoes and bright
flowering plants grow in the crevices, and the whole
place is shaded by magnolias, willow oaks and myrtles,
bound together by gigantic smilax and jessamine vines.
At several places there are openings in the ground
through which one can peep and see rapid water flowing
under our feet. This whole country is riddled
with underground streams. At Palmyra, not far
from Albany, there is a mill turned by one. The
stream was discovered by a man digging a well, to
which an accident happened not uncommon in this
country - the bottom dropped out. A calf that fell
into the well and was supposed to be drowned, turned
up a few days after, sound and safe. His tracks led
to an opening through which issued water covered
with foam. A great roaring was heard, which
further exploration showed to come from a fine subterranean
waterfall.

March 6, Monday. - After breakfast, we all piled
into a big plantation wagon and went to see Prairie
Pond, a great sheet of water covering over 200 acres.
It has formed there since Col. Maxwell bought the
Gopher Hill plantation. He says that when he first
came here there was not a patch of standing water
as big as his hand on all the acres now covered by
Prairie Pond, and the great skeletons of dead forest
trees still standing in the outer edges of the lake show
that the encroachment of the water is still going on.
Some years after he came to Gopher Hill, he says, a

blue spring on the other side of the plantation, that
formed the outlet of an underground stream, became
choked up from some cause, so the waters had no
escape, and Prairie Pond began to form and has been
slowly increasing ever since. Near the lake we came
to two remarkable lime sinks. They are both very
deep, and as round as drinking cups. One of them is
covered with a green scum about an inch thick, composed
of scaly plants, like lichens. Underneath this
scum the water is clear as crystal. The stones all
around are full of fossil shells, and we found some
beautiful crystallized limestone that sparkled like
diamonds.

We had to leave our wagon several hundred yards
from the border of the pond and make our explorations
on foot, for want of a wagon road. In returning
we took the wrong direction and went a mile or
two out of our way, getting very wet feet, and I tore
my dress so that I looked like a ragamuffin into the
bargain. When at last we reached home, the servants
told us that Mr. and Mrs. Warren, with Gen. Graves,
Mr. Baldwin, and Clint Spenser and Joe Godfrey
from Albany, had come over to dinner, and not finding
anybody at home, had set out in search of us. We
girls scurried to our rooms and had just made ourselves
respectable when Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Spenser,
having tired of their wild-goose chase, came back to
the house. Mecca and I got into the double buggy
with them and started out to hunt up the rest of the

party. After dinner, we went to Coney Lake again.
I went in the buggy with Joe Godfrey. He and Mr.
Baldwin each invited me to take a row. I didn't go
with Mr. Baldwin.

March 8, Wednesday. - I went up to Americus yesterday,
with Flora and Capt. Rust, to see Cousin
Bolling about my eyes, expecting to return to Gopher
Hill on the afternoon train, but Cousin Bessie insisted
that we should stay to dinner, and her
attempt to have it served early was so unsuccessful
that Capt. Rust and I got to the station just in time
to see the train moving off without us. Flora had
another engagement, that caused her to decline Mrs.
Pope's invitation, so she made the train, but the captain
and I had nothing for it but to spend the night
in Americus and kill the night as best we could. I
was repaid for the annoyance of getting left by the
favorable report Cousin Bolling gave of my eyes. He
says it is nothing but the effects of measles that ails
them, and they are almost well. I occupied Flora's
room that night. Cousin Bessie lent me one of her
fine embroidered linen nightgowns, and I was so overpowered
at having on a decent piece of underclothing
after the coarse Macon Mills homespun I have
been wearing for the last two years, that I could
hardly go to sleep. I stood before the glass and
looked at myself after I was undressed just to see
how nice it was to have on a respectable undergarment
once more. I can stand patched-up dresses, and even

take a pride in wearing Confederate homespun, where
it is done open and above board, but I can't help feeling
vulgar and common in coarse underclothes.
Cousin Bessie has brought quantities of beautiful
things from beyond the blockade, that make us poor
Rebs look like ragamuffins beside her. She has
crossed the lines by special permit, and will be obliged
to return to Memphis by the 2d of April, when her
pass will be out. It seems funny for a white woman
to have to get a pass to see her husband, just like the
negro men here do when their wives live on another
plantation. The times have brought about some
strange upturnings. Cousin Bolling is awfully blue
about the war, and it does begin to look as if our poor
little Confederacy was about on its last legs, but I am
so accustomed to all sorts of vicissitudes that I try
not to let thoughts of the inevitable disturb me. The
time to be blue was five years ago, before we went into
it. Before breakfast this morning I went out to
make the acquaintance of Col. Maxwell's old mammy,
Aunt Lizzie. She lives in a pretty little cottage on a
corner of the lot, and is more petted and spoiled than
any of his children. The day Cousin Bolling was
first expected in Americus with his bride, Flora went
to town to put the house in order for them, and asked
Aunt Lizzie to cook dinner for the newly married pair.

text for Mrs. Stowe! She has relented since then,
however, and Cousin Bessie says often sends her presents
of delicious rolls and light bread. She took me
into favor at once, told me all about her "rheumatiz,"
and "de spiration" of her heart, and kissed my hand
fervently when I went away. Capt. Rust was so
afraid of being left again that he would not wait for
the omnibus, but trotted me off on foot an hour ahead
of time, although it was raining. We met Mr. Wheatley
and Maj. Daniel on our way to the dépot, and they
told us that a dispatch had just been received stating
that the Yanks have landed at St. Mark's and are
marching on Tallahassee. We first heard they were
4,000 strong, but before we reached the dépot, their
numbers had swelled to 15,000.

March 9, Thursday. - Mrs. Warren gave a dinner
party to which all the people from Gopher Hill and a
good many from Albany were invited, but very few
attended on account of the weather. It poured down
rain all day, and in the afternoon there was a furious
storm; but Mrs. Maxwell is always in for a frolic, so
we left home at eleven, between showers, and got to
the Warrens' just before the storm burst. Gen.
Graves, Mr. Baldwin, Joe Godfrey, Albert Bacon,
and Jim Chiles were the only ones there besides Mrs.
Maxwell and her guests. There is a fine lake in front
of Mr. Warren's house, but the weather gave us no
opportunity for rowing. We dined at six, and it was
so dark when we rose from the table that we had to

start for home at once. Mrs. Warren insisted on our
staying all night, but there was company invited to
spend the evening at Gopher Hill, so off we went in
the rain. We took a new road to avoid some bad
mud holes in the old one, and as a matter of course,
lost our way in the numerous blind roads that cross
each other in every direction through the pine woods,
and which are all just alike except that they lead to
different places - or to no place at all. The night was
very dark and it rained furiously, though the wind
had lulled. The glare of the lightning was blinding
and terrific peals of thunder rang through the woods.
Every few yards there were trees blown across the
road, and the negro Mr. Warren had sent to guide us
would have to grope about in the dark, hunting for
some way around them. At last he confessed that he
had lost his way, and then I fell back in a corner of
the phaeton and began to say my prayers. As there
was nothing else to do, we concluded to follow the
blind path we were in, hoping it would lead somewhere.
It did lead us with a vengeance, through
ponds and bogs and dismal swamps where the frogs
filled our ears with unearthly noises. But all things
have an end, even piney woods byroads, and at last
we came out upon a broad smooth highway, which the
guide recognized as the one he was looking for. Our
troubles were now over, and in a short time we were
back at Gopher Hill. Though it was very late, we
began to dance and enjoy ourselves in a fashion, but

everybody seemed to be more or less out of humor,
for before we went to bed, I was made the confidante
of four lovers' quarrels.

March 10, Friday. - A day of public fasting and
prayer for our poor country, but there was little of
either done at Gopher Hill. We had a late breakfast
after our night's dissipation, and soon after, Mr. Baldwin
and Mr. Bacon came over and played cards till
dinner-time. After dinner the gentlemen proposed a
row on the lake, but Mrs. Maxwell and I were the only
ones that had fasted and we wouldn't indulge in a
frolic, and the others said they were afraid they might
be drowned for their sins if they ventured on the
water, so we drove to the station instead. We were
too late to meet the train, but heard plenty of news.
A tornado passed over the Flat Pond plantation yesterday,
destroying every house on it and killing fifteen
negroes; a schoolhouse was blown down and several
children killed; on one plantation all the poultry was
drowned, and two calves blown away and never came
down again! So much for marvels. But the whole
country between Wooten's and Gopher Hill is really
flooded. One bridge that we crossed was entirely
under water and seemed ready to give way and go
down stream at any moment. Jimmy caught a
gopher * in the road on our way home, and
we saw
rows of them sitting on logs in the swamps, as if
they were having a prayer-meeting.

March 11, Saturday. - Played euchre and wrote
letters all the morning. Capt. Rust gave me a pretty
tucking-comb which he had carved himself, out of
maple wood. We had an early dinner and reached
Wooten's at least half an hour before the train was
due. At the dépot in Albany, Albert Bacon, Joe Godfrey,
Mr. Baldwin, and Gen. Graves were waiting
for us. We drove by the post office to get the mail,
and there half a dozen others surrounded the carriage
and took the reins from Uncle Aby so that he could
not drive away. The people in the street laughed as
they went by to see them buzzing round the carriage
like bees, and presently Jim Chiles found Mary Leila
Powers and Mrs. Bell and brought them up to add to
the hubbub. Poor old Aby despaired of ever getting
us out of town, and when at last we started down the
street, we had not gone a hundred yards when I saw
a young officer in a captain's uniform running after
us and we came to another halt. It turned out to be
Wallace Brumby. He says that he left Washington
two weeks ago, and is water-bound here, on his way
to Florida, where some of his men are straggling
about, if they haven't been swallowed up by the freshets
that have disorganized everything. He promised
to stop at Pine Bluff on his way down, and give us
the news. Then Uncle Aby grew desperate, and seeing
another squad of officers coming up to join Capt.
Brumby, whipped up his horses and drove off without
further ceremony. He was right to hurry, for the

roads are so flooded that we had to travel 20 miles
to get home. Everything is under water. In some
places the front wheels were entirely submerged and
we had to stand on the seats to keep our feet dry. It
was nine o'clock before we reached home, and Mrs.
Butler and Mrs. Meals had become so uneasy that
they were about to send a man on horseback to see
what had become of us. I found letters from home
waiting for us, with permission to go to Chunnennuggee
or anywhere else we want to. Communication
between here and Washington is so interrupted that
I don't suppose they have heard yet of the reported
raid into Florida, and all our writing back and forth
is at cross purposes. The latest news is that the
Yankees have whipped our forces at Tallahassee, but
the waters are so high and communication so uncertain
that one never knows what to believe. At any rate,
I shall not run till I hear that the enemy are at
Thomasville.

March 13, Monday. - Mett, Mecca, and I took a
long drive to look at some new muslin dress goods
that we heard a countryman down towards Camilla
had for sale. They were very cheap - only twenty
dollars a yard. Mett and I each bought a dress and
would have got more if Mrs. Settles, the man's wife,
would have sold them. How they came to let these
two go so cheap I can't imagine. I felt as if I were
cheating the woman when I paid her 500 dollars in
Confederate money for 20 yards of fairly good lawn.

We stopped at Gum Pond on the way back and paid
a visit. Albert Bacon gave me a beautiful red-bird
that he shot for me to trim my hat with.

March 16, Thursday. - Rain, rain, rain, nothing but
rain! The river is out of its banks again and all that
part of the plantation overflowed. A chain of ponds
and lime sinks shuts us in behind, a great slough of
backwater from the river cuts us off from the negro
quarter, Wright's Creek is impassable on the North,
and the Phinizy pond on the east. We are completely
water-bound; nobody can come to us and we
can go nowhere. The carriage house was blown down
in the storm on Tuesday night and the carriage will
have to be repaired before we can use it again. We
have not even the mail to relieve the monotony of life;
sometimes the hack does not pass Gum Pond for four
days at a time.

March 20, Monday. - The rain has stopped at last
and the waters are beginning to subside, but the roads
are terrible. We have had a mail at last, too, and a
long letter from home giving us carte blanche as to
future movements; as dear old father expressed it:
"Go where you please, when you please, do what you
please and call on Mr. Farley or Mr. Butler for all
the money you need." That is the way I like to be
treated. I think now we will go to Chunnennuggee
by way of Eufaula and the Chattahoochee. The river
trip would be pleasant, and Jenny and Julia Toombs
are with their aunt in Eufaula, who has invited us

to meet them there. However, our movements are
so uncertain that I don't like to make engagements.
We will stop a few days in Cuthbert with the Joyners,
anyway.

March 21, Tuesday. Albany. - Pouring down rain
again, but the carriage had to go to Albany anyway,
to meet sister, and Mecca was hurried home by news
of the death of her aunt, so I rode in to the station
with her. The roads are horrible - covered with
water most of the way, and the mischief with these
piney woods ponds is that you never know what
minute the bottom is going to drop out and let you
down with it to the Lord only knows where. The
carriage was so much out of order that I expected the
hind wheels to fly off at every jolt. I sent it to the
shop to be repaired as soon as Mecca and I were
safely deposited at Mrs. Sims's. The train was not
due till three, and our good little friend occupied the
time in trying to convert Mecca. Mec didn't abjure
on the spot, but held out a flag of truce by remarking
that her father had been baptized and brought up in
the Episcopal Church. His apostasy only made matters
worse in Mrs. Sims's eyes; she could not understand
how anybody reared in the true faith could fall
away and become a dissenter.

"Oh, he was surfeited with the prayer-book when
a boy, he says," Mecca explained, laughing, "like he
was with hominy and milk. Grandma used to make
him eat it for breakfast every morning whether he

wanted it or not, and in the same way she made him
go to the Episcopal Church every Sunday, whether
he wanted to or not, and so, as soon as he was old
enough to have his own way, he swore off from both."

"Why," exclaimed the zealous proselytes, "I don't
see why he should have let his dislike of hominy and
milk drive him out of the church!

Mecca tried to explain. Mrs. Sims shook her head.
"Oh, I know," she said, "but don't you think he did
wrong to let such a thing as that cause him to leave
the church? I don't see what hominy and milk could
have to do with anybody's religion."

Mec laughed and gave it up. The rain stopped
about dinner-time and it was beautifully clear when
I drove to the dépot for sister. She was very tired
and went directly to Mrs. Sims's, but Mecca and I
walked down Broad street to the post office, where we
were joined by Mr. Godfrey and Dr. Vason. They
and a number of others called in the evening.

March 22, Wednesday. - Up very early and drove
to the dépot with Mecca. Mr. Godfrey was there
and proposed that we should go as far as Smithville
with her, and let him drive me out home in the afternoon,
but the roads are so bad and the weather so
uncertain that I thought I had better go back with
sister. The journey was the worst we have made yet.
We bogged at one place and had to wade through the
mud while Aby helped the mules to pull the carriage
over. At Wright's Creek we found a crowd of

soldiers and countrymen on the bank, and they told
us the creek was too high to cross. Some of them
were exchanged prisoners impatient to get home, and
they had determined to swim over. They stood on
the bank with bare legs, ready to strip off and plunge
in the moment our backs were turned. I couldn't help
being amused at the nonchalance with which one burly
fellow pulled off his stockings and commenced playing
with his toes while talking to us. Another, wishing to
call sister's attention to the water-mark, grabbed her
by the arm and led her down the bank, saying:

"See this here stick here, where the water has
already begun to fall, an' hit'll fall a heap rapider the
next hour or two."

They meant no harm. These are unceremonious
times, when social distinctions are forgotten and the
raggedest rebel that tramps the road in his country's
service is entitled to more honor than a king. We
stood on the bank a long time, talking with the poor
fellows and listening to their adventures. There was
one old man standing on the shore, gazing across as
wistfully as Moses might have looked towards the
promised land. He could not swim, but his home
was over there, and he had made up his mind to
plunge in and try to cross at any risk. The soldiers
saluted him with a few rough jokes, and then showed
their real metal by mounting him on the back of the
strongest of them, who waded in with his burden,
while two others swam along on each side to give help

in case of accident. Sister and I thought at first of
getting Gen. Dahlgren to send us across in his pleasure
boat, but soon gave up the idea and concluded to stay
at the Mallarys' till the creek became fordable, for we
knew it would fall as rapidly as it had risen. We
bid our soldier friends good-by, and drove away to
the Mallarys', where we spent a pleasant day and
night. Gen. and Mrs. Dahlgren called after dinner
and said that we ought to have stopped with them.
Mrs. Dahlgren is a beautiful woman, and only twenty-two
years old, while her husband is over sixty. He
is a pompous old fellow and entertained us by telling
how his influence made Gen. Joseph E. Johnston commander-in-chief
of the Army of Tennessee; how Hood
lost Atlanta by not following his (Dahlgren's) advice;
how he was the real inventor of the Dahlgren gun,
which is generally attributed to his brother, the
Yankee admiral - and so on.

March 23, Thursday. - We left the Mallarys' soon
after breakfast and were successful in crossing the
creek. It seems hard to believe that this stream,
which is giving so much trouble now, will be as dry
as a baked brick next summer. The road on the
other side was fairly good and we got home long
before dinner-time. No letters waiting for me, but
a package from Mr. Herrin of Chunnennuggee, containing
a beautiful fox tail in memory of our hunts
together on the Ridge last winter.

Mallarys, and Dahlgrens. The general and his
wife were just starting out to make calls when we
drove up, so we went along together. The roads are
so perfectly abominable that it is no pleasure to go
anywhere. At one place the water was half a foot
deep in the bottom of the carriage, and we had to ride
with our feet cocked up on the seats to keep them dry.
Some of the ponds were so deep as almost to swim
the mules, and others were boggy. We stopped at
the post office on our way home and found a letter
from Mec urging us to come over to Cuthbert right
away.

March 28, Tuesday. - Misses Caro and Lou Bacon
spent the day with us, but I could not enjoy their visit
for thinking of the poor boy, Anderson, who has been
sent to jail. He implored me to beg "missis" to forgive
him, and I couldn't help taking his part, though
I know he deserved punishment. He refused to obey
the overseer, and ran away four times. A soldier
caught him and brought him in this morning with
his hands tied behind him. Such sights sicken me,
and I couldn't help crying when I saw the poor wretch,
though I know discipline is necessary, especially in
these turbulent times, and sister is sending him to jail
more as an example to the others than to hurt him.
She has sent strict orders to the sheriff not to be too
severe with him, but there is no telling what brutal
men who never had any negroes of their own will do;
they don't know how to feel for the poor creatures.

March 31, Friday. - Mrs. Callaway gave a large
dining, and I wore a pretty new style of head dress
Cousin Bessie told me how to make, that was very
becoming. It is a small square, about as big as my
two hands, made of a piece of black and white lace
that ran the blockade, and nobody else has anything
like it. One point comes over the forehead, just
where the hair is parted, and the opposite one rests
on top of the chignon behind, with a bow and ends of
white illusion. It has the effect of a Queen of Scots
cap, and is very stylish. The dining was rather
pleasant. Kate Callaway's father, Mr. Furlow,
was there, with his youngest daughter, Nellie, who
is lovely.

As we were coming home we passed by a place
where the woods were on fire, and were nearly suffocated
by the smoke. It was so dense that we could
not see across the road. On coming round to the
windward of the conflagration it was grand. The
smoke and cinders were blown away from us, but
we felt the heat of the flames and heard their roaring
in the distance. The volumes of red-hot smoke that
went up were of every hue, according to the materials
burning and the light reflected on them. Some were
lurid yellow, orange, red, some a beautiful violet,
others lilac, pink, purple or gray, while the very fat
lightwood sent up columns of jet-black. The figures
of the negroes, as they flitted about piling up brush
heaps and watching the fire on the outskirts of the

April 1, Saturday. - There was fooling and counter
fooling between Pine Bluff and Gum Pond all day.
Jim Chiles and Albert Bacon began it by sending us
a beautiful bouquet over which they had sprinkled
snuff. We returned the box that had held the flowers,
filled with dead rats dressed up in capes and mob
caps like little old women. Then Albert tried to
frighten us by sending a panicky note saying a dispatch
had just been received from Thomasville that
the Yankees were devastating the country round there,
and heading for Andersonville. We pretended to
believe it, and sister wrote back as if in great alarm,
inquiring further particulars. Albert got his father
to answer with a made-up story that he and Wallace
had both gone to help fight the raiders at Thomasville.
They must have thought us fools indeed, to believe
that the enemy could come all the way from
Tallahassee or Savannah to Thomasville, without our
hearing a word of it till they got there, but we pretended
to swallow it all, and got sister to write back
that Metta and I were packing our trunks and would
leave for Albany immediately, so as to take the first
train for Macon; and to give color to the story, she
sent word for Tommy, who was spending the day
with Loring Bacon, to come home and tell his aunties
good-by. They were caught with their own bait, and
Albert and Jimmy, fearing they had carried the joke

too far, came galloping over at full speed to prevent
our setting out. We saw them coming across the
field, and Mett and I hid ourselves, while sister met
them with a doleful countenance, pretending that we
had already gone and that she was frightened out of
her wits. She had rubbed her eyes to make them
look as if she had been crying, and the children and
servants, too, had been instructed to pretend to be in
a great flurry. When the jokers confessed their trick,
she pretended to be so hurt and angry that they were
in dismay, thinking they had really driven us off,
though all the while we were locked in our own room,
peeping through the cracks, listening to it all, and
ready to burst with laughter. They had mounted
their horses and declared that they would go after
us and fetch us back, if they had to ride all the way
to Albany, when old Uncle Setley spoiled our whole
plot by laughing and yawping so that he excited their
suspicion. They got down from their horses and
began to look for wheel tracks on the ground, and at
last Jim, who missed his calling in not being a detective,
went and peeped into the carriage-house and
saw the carriage standing there in its place. This
convinced them that we had not gone to Albany, but
where were we? Then began the most exciting game
of hide-and-seek I ever played. Such a jumping in
and out of windows, crawling under beds and sliding
into corners, was never done before. The children
and servants, all but old fool Setley, acted their parts

well, but Jimmy was not to be foiled. They bid sister
good-by several times and rode away as if they were
going home, then suddenly returned in the hope of
taking us by surprise. At last, after dark, we thought
they were off for good, and went in to supper, taking
the precaution, however, to bar the front door and
draw the dining-room curtains. But we had had hardly
begun to eat when Jimmy burst into the room, exclaiming:

"Howdy do, Miss Fanny; you made a short trip
to Albany."

We all jumped up from the table and began to bombard
him with hot biscuits and muffins, and whatever
else we could lay hands on. Then Mr. Bacon came
in, a truce was declared, and we sat down and ate
supper - or what was left of it - together. After
supper we made Uncle Aby hitch up the carriage and
drive us over to Gum Pond to surprise the family
there. I dressed myself up like an old cracker woman
and went in and asked for a night's lodging. Maj.
Bacon thought I was Leila trying to play a trick on
him, so he dragged me very unceremoniously into the
middle of the room, under the lamp, and pulled my
bonnet off. It was funny to see his embarrassment
when he saw his mistake; he is so awfully punctilious.
He said he was in the act of writing a note to send
after us to Albany, when I came in. They were all so
delighted at finding they had not frightened us out
of the country, that we had a grand jubilee together.

We counted up before returning home, and found that
forty-four miles had been ridden back and forth during
the day on account of this silly April-fooling. I
don't think I ever enjoyed a day more in my life. It
began happily, too, with Anderson's return from jail
early in the morning, and peace-making with his
"missis." I expect we were all as glad of the poor
darkey's release as he was himself. Mett says she
wouldn't care much if they could all be set free - but
what on earth could we do with them, even if we
wanted to free them ourselves? And to have a gang
of meddlesome Yankees come down here and take
them away from us by force - I would never submit
to that, not even if slavery were as bad as they pretend.
I think the best thing to do, if the Confederacy were
to gain its independence, would be to make a law
confiscating the negroes of any man who was cruel
to them, and allowing them to choose their own
master. Of course they would choose the good men,
and this would make it to everybody's interest to treat
them properly.

April 2, Sunday. - I went to church at Mt. Enon.
After service we stopped to tell everybody good-by,
and I could hardly help crying, for we are to leave
sure enough on Tuesday, and there is no telling what
may happen before we come back; the Yankees may
have put an end to our glorious old plantation life
forever. I went to the quarter after dinner and told
the negroes good-by. Poor things, I may never see

any of them again, and even if I do, everything will
be different. We all went to bed crying, sister, the
children, and servants. Farewells are serious things
in these times, when one never knows where or under
what circumstances friends will meet again. I wish
there was some way of getting to one place without
leaving another where you want to be at the same
time; some fourth dimension possibility, by which we
might double our personality.

CHAPTER III

A RACE WITH THE ENEMY

April 3-22, 1865

EXPLANATORY NOTE. -
There is hardly anything in this
chapter but will easily explain itself. The war was virtually
over when we left our sister, though we did not
know it, and the various raids and forays alluded to in
the journal were really nothing but the march of victorious
generals to take possession of a conquered
country. Communication was so interrupted that we did
not hear of the fall of Richmond till the 6th of April,
four days after it happened, and no certain news of Lee's
surrender reached us till the 20th, eleven days after the
event, though we caught vague rumors of it on the 19th.

Chunnennuggee Ridge, to which allusion is made in
this chapter and the preceding, is a name given to a tall
escarpment many miles in length, overlooking the rich
prairie lands of South-East Alabama. On top of this
bluff the owners of the great cotton plantations in the
prairie made their homes, and for some five or six miles
north of the town of Union Springs, about midway between
Montgomery and Eufaula, the edge of the bluff
was lined with a succession of stately mansions surrounded
by beautiful parks and gardens, very much as
the water front of a fashionable seaside resort is built up
to-day. The writer had frequently visited this delightful
place with her cousin, Miss Victoria Hoxey (Tolie
of the diary), who had a married sister living there.

April 3, Monday. Albany, Ga. - All of us very
miserable at the thought of parting. Mrs. Meals goes
with us as far as Wooten's, on her way to Gopher
Hill, so sister and the children are left alone. Brother
Troup has been ordered to Gen. Wofford's command
in North Georgia, and this separation adds to her
feeling of loneliness, but she and the children will soon
join us in Washington, so it won't matter so much.
The ride to Albany was very unpleasant, the sun
scorching hot, the glare of the sand blinding, and Mrs.
Meals with a headache. Mr. George Hull writes that
the Georgia R.R. will be open for travel by the last
of this month, and so our visits to Cuthbert and Macon
will just fill in the interval for Mett and me. We
can then go home by way of Atlanta. It is something
to think we will be able to go all the way by rail and
won't have to undergo that troublesome wagon ride
again across the country.

April 4, Cuthbert, Ga., Tuesday. - Up early and
at the dépot. Jim Chiles accompanied us as far as
Smithville. We had to wait five hours there for the
train to Cuthbert. The hotel was so uninviting that
we stayed in the car, putting down the blinds and
making ourselves as comfortable as we could. Capt.
Warwick, who is stationed there, was very kind and
attentive. He paid us a call in our impromptu parlor,
and made some of his hands bring in buckets of water
and sprinkle the floor to cool it off a little. Just before
the train arrived on which we were to leave, there

came one with 1,100 Yankee prisoners on their way
from Anderson en route for Florida, to be exchanged. *

The guard fired a salute
as they passed, and some of
the prisoners had the impudence to kiss their hands
at us - but what better could be expected of the foreign
riff-raff that make up the bulk of the Yankee army?
If they had not been prisoners I would have felt like
they ought to have a lesson in manners, for insulting
us, but as it was, I couldn't find it in my heart to be
angry. They were half- naked, and such a poor, miserable,
starved-looking set of wretches that we couldn't
help feeling sorry for them in spite of their wicked
war against our country, and threw what was left of
our lunch at them, as their train rattled by, thinking
it would feed two or three of them, at least. But
our aim was bad, and it fell short, so the poor creatures
didn't get it, and if any of them noticed, I expect
they thought we were only "d - d rebel women"
throwing our waste in their faces to insult them. I
am glad they are going to be exchanged, anyway, and
leave a climate that seems to be so unfriendly to them,
though I think it is the garden spot of the world. If
I had my choice of all the climates I know anything

about, to live in, I would choose the region between
Macon and Thomasville.

The railroad from Smithville to Cuthbert runs into
the "oaky woods" beyond Smithville, which are more
broken and undulating than the pine flats, and the
swamps are larger and more beautiful on account of
the greater variety of vegetation. They are a huge
mosaic, at this season, of wild azaleas, Atamasco
lilies, yellow jessamine, and a hundred other brilliant
wild flowers. My taste may be very perverted, but to
my mind there is no natural scenery in the world so
beautiful as a big Southern swamp in springtime. It
has its beauty in winter, too, with the somber cypress,
the stately magnolias, the silvery bays, and the jungle
of shrubs and vines, gay with the red berries of holly
and winter smilax. The railroad from Smithville to
Cuthbert is lined on both sides with saw mills, getting
out lumber for the government, and they are destroying
the beauty of the country.

The Joyner girls and Capt. Greenlaw were at the
dépot to meet us. Mr. Joyner has bought an old hotel
here for his family to refugee in, and it really makes
a very pleasant residence, though not to compare with
their pretty home in Atlanta, that the Yankees destroyed.
Cousin Bolling's hospital has been moved
here from Americus, and he and his little stepson,
Brown Ayres, are boarding with the Joyners. Dr.
Robertson, of Virginia, and Capt. Graybill, of Macon,
are also members of the household. In these days,

when everybody is living from hand to mouth, and
half the world is refugeeing, most people who are
fortunate enough to possess homes have very heterogeneous
households.

The village seems to be very gay. We found an
invitation awaiting us for to-morrow night and the
gentlemen in the house proposed a theater-party for
this evening, to see the amateurs, but it is Lent, and I
am trying to do better in the way of refraining from
worldly amusements and mortifying the flesh, than I
did in Montgomery last spring, so we spent the evening
at home.

April 5, Wednesday. - Just before daylight we were
awakened by a lovely serenade, and I gave myself a
sore throat trotting over the house bare-footed, hunting
for flowers to throw to the serenaders. Mett and
Mary had all that were in the house in their room,
and would not give the rest of us any. Their finest
bouquet lodged in the boughs of a spreading willow
oak near the window, and then we had the laugh on
them.

The girls were busy all day getting ready for Miss
Long's wedding. I might take more credit to myself
for keeping Lent if I had anything to wear, but my
one new dress isn't made up yet, and everything else
I have is too frazzled out to wear. Dr. Robertson
and Capt. Graybill, both pretending to be good Episcopalians,
urged me to go, but that unfinished dress was
a powerful support to my conscience. I fixed Metta

up beautifully, though, and she was very much admired.
Her hair that she lost last fall, from typhoid
fever, has grown out curly, and her head is frizzled
beautifully all over, without the bother of irons and
curl-papers. Metta says she never saw more elegant
dressing than at Miss Long's wedding, which is a great
credit to the taste and ingenuity of our Southern girls
in patching up pretty things out of all sorts of odds
and ends.

Capt. Tennille, an acquaintance of Garnett's, dined
here, and five of Cousin Bolling's patients called in
the afternoon. One of them, Capt. Guy, had had a
curious experience with a minié ball that knocked out
one tooth and passed out at the back of his neck without
killing him. I laughed and told him he was certainly
born to be hanged. Another poor fellow, with
a dreadfully ugly face, had six battle scars to make
him interesting.

A report has come that the Yankees have taken
Selma, and a raid is advancing towards Eufaula, so
that puts a stop to our Chunnennuggee trip. I can't
say that I am disappointed, for I don't want to turn
my face from home any more, but Mett was anxious
to make the trip, and I thought it would be mean not
to go with her.

April 6, Thursday. - Capt. Greenlaw brought his
flute and spent the morning. He is red-headed and
ugly, but very musical, and such jolly good company
that one can't help liking him. I don't know when I

have met a person that seemed so genial and altogether
lovable, in a brotherly sort of way.... I took a
long walk through the village with Capt. Greenlaw
after dinner, and was charmed with the lovely gardens
and beautiful shade trees. On coming home, I heard of
the fall of Richmond. Everybody feels very blue, but
not disposed to give up as long as we have Lee. Poor
Dr. Robertson has been nearly distracted since he
heard the news. His wife and five little children are
on a farm near Petersburg, and he don't know what
is to become of them.

April 7, Friday. - Capt. Greenlaw spent the day here
and brought me the biggest bouquet of the biggest red
roses I ever saw; I couldn't help laughing when he
threw it into my lap. He calls me "cousin," because he
says we both have such red heads that we ought to be
kin. There is something in his easy, good-natured way
of laughing and joking about everything that reminds
me a good deal of Fred. And he has the sweetest
way in the world of carrying flowers about with him,
and slipping them into your work basket, or throwing
them into your lap, or laying them on your handkerchief -
no matter where, but I can always tell when he
has been about by finding a full-blown rose, or a sprig
of wild honeysuckle, or a bunch of swamp lilies, or
some other big bright flower lying around among my
things. It rained most of the day, but was not too
wet for many callers, and another long walk in the
afternoon through this pretty little town. The two

female colleges have been turned into hospitals, one of
which is under Cousin Bolling's charge.

The news this evening is that Montgomery has gone,
and the new capital of the Confederacy will be either
Macon, or Athens, Georgia. The war is closing in
upon us from all sides. I am afraid there are
rougher times ahead than we have ever known yet. I
wish I was safe at home. Since Brother Troup has
been ordered from Macon our chance of getting a government
wagon is gone, and the railroad won't be
finished through to Atlanta for a week or ten days yet.
If ever I do get back home again, I will stay there till
the war is over.

April 8, Saturday. - Cousin Bolling has returned
from his visit to Americus. Mary, Lizzie, Mett, and
I went to the dépot to meet him and hear the news,
then took a walk through Lovers' Lane, a beautiful
shady road that runs through woods so thick as to
make solid walls of green on either side. It is intersected
with other roads as white and shady as itself,
with all sorts of wild flowers blooming on the
ground and climbing over the trees. This is indeed
one of the loveliest villages I ever was in, but it has
one most unromantic drawback; it is awfully infested
with fleas. They are like an Egyptian plague, and
keep you wriggling and squirming in a perpetual
struggle against the vulgar impulse to scratch.

Everybody is talking about the gloomy aspect of
affairs. Capt. Greenlaw spent the morning as usual,

and the more I see of him the better I like him for his
bright, cheery disposition. Among those who called
in the evening, was a Mr. Renaud, of New Orleans,
whom I liked very much. He has that charming
Creole accent which would make it a pleasure to listen
to him, even if he were not so nice himself.

April 9, Sunday. - I went to worship with a little
band of Episcopalians, mostly refugees, who meet
every Sunday in a schoolhouse. It is a rough place,
with very uncomfortable benches, but beautifully situated
in a grove just at the entrance to Lovers' Lane.
The services were conducted by old Mr. George, who
used to come out to the Tallassee plantation, as far
back as I can remember, and hold mission services
for father's and Mr. Nightingale's negroes, sometimes
in Uncle Jacob's cabin, sometimes in the little
log chapel on Mr. Nightingale's Silver Lake place.
He teaches in the little schoolhouse all the week to
support his family - a full baker's dozen - and holds
church services on Sundays for the refugees and
soldiers of the faith that have stranded here. He has
spent his life in mission work, laying the foundation
of churches for other men to build on. There is
something very touching in the unrewarded labor of
this good man, grown gray in the service of his God.
The churches he builds up, as soon as they begin to
prosper, ask the bishop for another pastor. He wore
no surplice, and his threadbare silk gown was, I verily
believe, the same that he used to wear in the old plantation

chapel. It was pathetic to see him - his congregation
still more so. It consisted mainly of poor
wounded soldiers from the hospitals, especially in the
afternoon, when there were no services in the other
churches. They came, some limping on crutches, some
with scarred and mangled faces, some with empty
sleeves, nearly all with poor, emaciated bodies, telling
their mute tale of sickness and suffering, weariness
and heartache. I saw one poor lame fellow
leading a blind one, who held on to his crutch. Another
had a blind comrade hanging upon one arm
while an empty sleeve dangled where the other ought
to be. I have seen men since I came here with both
eyes shot out, men with both arms off, and one poor
fellow with both arms and a leg gone. What can
our country ever do to repay such sacrifice? And
yet, it is astonishing to see how cheerful these brave
fellows are, especially Cousin Bolling's patients, who
laughingly dub themselves "The Blind Brigade."

I went to the Baptist Church with the Joyner girls
at night. Metta and I were more amused than edified
during the sermon by hearing ourselves discussed in
whispers by some people directly behind us. Two of
them got into a dispute as to which was the best looking,
but we could not hear how they decided it. One
of them suggested that we were twins, and this gave
me a good laugh on Mett, who is so much younger
and better-looking than I, that the comparison was
not at all flattering to her.

April 10, Monday. - The day was largely taken up
with callers. When there is nothing else to do, we
amuse ourselves by sitting at the windows and looking
into the streets. Mr. Joyner's house is between the
post office and the quarters of the provost guard, and
just beyond the latter is a schoolhouse, so we are
never at a loss for something to amuse us. The
fashionable promenade of the village is up and down
the street that runs in front of the house, but I like
better to walk in the woods, which are very beautiful
around here.

The tableaux club met at Mrs. Joyner's in the evening.
Metta and I will not be in Cuthbert long enough
to take part in the entertainment, but were admitted
to the rehearsal. After the rehearsal some one suggested
that we should go out serenading. There were
several good voices in the party, and after calling at
one or two private houses, somebody said it would be
a good idea to go and cheer up the soldiers in the Hood
Hospital, which was but a block or two away, with
some war songs. The poor fellows were so delighted
when they heard us that all who were able, dressed
themselves and came out on the terraces, while others
crowded to the windows and balconies. They sent
a shower of roses down on us, and threw with them
slips of paper with the names of the songs they wished
to hear. We gave them first:

which pleased them so much that they called for it a
second time. Then some one struck up "Vive
L'Amour," and Mett gave an impromptu couplet:

"Here's to the boys in Confederate gray,
Vive la compagnie,
Who never their country nor sweethearts betray,
Vive, etc."

While the soldiers were
clapping and shouting the
chorus, two good lines popped into my head, and when
the noise had subsided a little, I sang:

"Here's a toast to the boys who go limping on crutches,
Vive la compagnie,
They have saved our land from the enemies' clutches,
Vive, etc."

I waved my hand at a
group of brave fellows leaning
on crutches, as I finished, and a regular rebel yell
went up from the hospital grounds. Flowers were
rained down from the windows, and I never was so
delighted in my life - to think that my little knack of
stringing rhymes together had served some good purpose
for once. The soldiers clapped and shouted and
rattled their crutches together, and one big fellow
standing near me threw up his battered old war hat,
and cried out:

"Bully for you! give
us some more!" and then
I added:

"Here's death to the men who wear Federal blue,
They are cowardly, cruel, perfidious, untrue," etc.

But after all, it looks
as if the wretches are going to
bring death, or slavery that is worse than death, to us.
We may sing and try to put on a brave face, but alas!
who can tell what the end of it all is to be?

April 1,
Tuesday. - I slept all the morning and
was only wakened in the afternoon by Mary Joyner
pulling at my feet and telling me to get up for dinner.
I like Mary. Her manner is abrupt, but she is generosity
itself. Her devotion to the sick and wounded
soldiers is beautiful. Often she will go without her
dinner and always denies herself any special delicacy
that happens to be on the table, in order to take it to
one of the hospitals. Almost every mail brings her
grateful letters from the soldiers she has nursed, or
from the wives and sweethearts of those who will
never need her services again. I love to hear her tell
about her experiences in the Atlanta hospitals during
the siege. Some of them are very funny, but more
of them are sad. She was called "the hospital
angel" in Atlanta, and well deserved the name.

The Cuthbert Thespian Corps gave Richelieu at the
theater this evening, for the benefit of the hospitals.
Dr. Robertson acted the part of De Mauprat, and I
dressed him for the occasion in the velvet cloak I
bought from Mrs. Sims, and sleeves of crimson silk
that had been the trousers of a Turkish costume that
sister wore at a fancy ball in Columbus before the
war. I didn't go to see the play because I am keeping
Lent.

April 12, Wednesday. - Breakfast so late that visitors
began to call before we had finished. In the
evening, Mr. Renaud and Mr. Jeffers called. Mr.
Jeffers is a wonderful mimic, and sings a comic song
so well that I told him I wondered how he ever escaped
being a vagabond. Dr. Robertson had got leave to
start for Virginia in the morning, and was having a
farewell party of gentlemen in his room, whom he
seemed to be entertaining chiefly on tobacco and
"straws." After a while they joined us in the parlor,
and Mr. Jeffers introduced each one as he came in,
with a happy little rhyming couplet on his name or
occupation. Altogether, it was one of the brightest,
wittiest things I ever heard, though I am sorry to say
that some of the company gave evidence of having
indulged too freely in "straws," with the usual seasonings.
Dr. Boyd says that my little rhyme about
the boys on crutches did the sick soldiers more good
than all his medicines. Some poor fellows who had
hardly noticed anything for a week, he says, laughed
and clapped their hands like happy children, as they
lay on their beds and listened. He says they have
been talking about it ever since.

April 13, Thursday. - Slept away the morning as usual,
and spent the afternoon returning calls, as that
seems to be the fashionable time for visiting in Cuthbert.
The tableaux club met at Dr. Jackson's in the
evening and after rehearsal we went to serenade the
soldiers at the Hill Hospital, as it would seem like

slighting them to pass them by after serenading the
others. But they knew we were coming and so things
didn't go off with the warmth and naturalness of our
other visit. They had prepared an entertainment for
us, and brought us some lemonade made with brown
sugar and citric acid. It was dreadful stuff, but the
dear fellows were giving us the best they had, and, I
am afraid, depriving themselves of supplies they
needed for their own use. While we were drinking,
somebody led off with a verse of the "Confederate
Toast" and then looked at me, and I added one that
I felt half-ashamed of because I had made it up beforehand
and felt like an impostor, but couldn't help
it when I knew beforehand what was coming:

"Here's to the Southern rebel, drink it down;
Here's to the Southern rebel, drink it down;
Here's to the Southern rebel,
May his enemies go to the - "

I came to a sudden stop
at the last word and the
soldiers, with a laugh and a yell, took up the chorus
and carried it through. Then we amused ourselves
for some time answering each other with couplets,
good, bad, and indifferent - mostly indifferent. My
parting one was:

"Hurrah for the soldiers who stay on the Hill;
They have fought, they have suffered, they are full of pluck still."

April 15,
Saturday. - A new rumor, that the Yankees
are at Glenville, advancing on Eufaula, but those

best qualified to judge seem to think this move only a
feint, and that their real destination is Columbus. We
seem to have been followed all winter by storms and
floods and Yankee panics. We are not much disturbed
by this one, however, as we expect to leave for
Macon on Monday, anyway.

Capt. Greenlaw and Mr.
Renaud called in the afternoon,
but I was frizzing my hair and the other girls
were asleep, so none of us went downstairs to see
them. Capt. Greenlaw came again in the evening, but
he was either sick or in love, for he didn't laugh and
tease as usual, and kept asking for sentimental songs.

April 16, Easter Sunday. - The brightest, loveliest
day I ever beheld, and our little schoolhouse of a
chapel was well-filled, considering how few Episcopalians
are here. Twelve females and not a single
male received the communion. Capt. Greenlaw went
with me to the afternoon service while the other girls
were taking their nap, and we had a pleasant stroll
afterwards through the woods. On the way home
we met Cousin Bolling's servant, Jordan, who told me
that Jenny and Julia Toombs were at the hotel with
their father and had sent for Mett and me to come
and see them. They had passed through Cuthbert on
the morning train from Eufaula, but they had not
gone fifteen miles beyond it when the boiler to their
engine burst, and they had to come back on the afternoon
train and spend the night here. We went immediately
to the hotel and had a grand jubilee together.

April 17, Monday. Macon. Ga. - Up early, to be
ready for the train at seven. The Toombses met us at
the dépot, where Capt. Greenlaw, Mr. Renaud, and a
number of others came to see us off. When the train
arrived from Eufaula it was already crowded with
refugees, besides 300 volunteers from the exempts
going to help fight the Yankees at Columbus. All
sorts of wild rumors were flying, among them one
that fighting had already begun at Columbus, and
that a raid had been sent out towards Eufaula. Excitement
on the train was intense. At Ward's Station,
a dreary-looking little place, we picked up the
train wrecked yesterday, with many of the passengers
still on board. They had spent the night there in the cars,
having nowhere else to go. Beyond Ward's,
the failure of this train to appear had given color to
all sorts of wild rumors about the advance of the
Yankees into South-West Georgia. The excitement
was intense all along the route. At every little station
crowds were gathered to hear the news, and at many
places we found a report had gone out that both our
train and yesterday's had been captured. The excitement
increased as we approached Fort Valley, where
the Muscogee road (from Columbus) joins the South-Western,
and many of the passengers predicted that
we should be captured there. At the next station below
Fort Valley, our fears regarding the fate of Columbus
were confirmed by a soldier on the platform,
who shouted out as the train slowed down, "Columbus

gone up the spout!" Nobody was surprised, and all
were eager to hear particulars. I was glad to learn
that our poor little handful of Confederates had made
a brave fight before surrendering. The city was not
given up till nine last night, when the Yanks slipped
over the railroad bridge and got in before our men,
who were defending the other bridge, knew anything
about it. We had not enough to watch both bridges,
and it seemed more likely the attack would be made
by the dirt road. Then everybody blundered around
in the dark, fighting pretty much at random. If a
man met some one he did not know, he asked whether
he was a Yank or a Reb, and if the answer did not
suit his views he fired. At last everybody became
afraid to tell who or what they were. It was thought
that our forces had retired towards Opelika. When
we reached Fort Valley the excitement was at fever
heat. Train upon train of cars was there, all the
rolling stock of the Muscogee Road having been run
out of Columbus to keep it from being captured, and
the cars were filled with refugees and their goods. It
was pitiful to see them, especially the poor little children,
driven from their homes by the frozen-hearted
Northern Vandals, but they were all brave and cheerful,
laughing good-naturedly instead of grumbling
over their hardships. People have gotten so used to
these sort of things that they have learned to bear
them with philosophy. Soldiers who had made their
escape after the fight, without surrendering, were

camped about everywhere, looking tired and hungry,
and more disheartened than the women and children.
Poor fellows, they have seen the terrors of war nearer
at hand than we. As our train drew up at the dépot,
I caught sight of Fred in the crowd. He had been
in the fight at Columbus, and I concluded was now on
his way to Cuthbert to find Metta and me. I called
to let him know that we were on board, but he did not
hear me, and before I could make my way to the
opposite window, the train moved on a few hundred
yards and he was lost in the crowd. I was greatly
disturbed, for it was said that the train we were on
was the last that would be run over the South-Western
Road. While I was in this dilemma, Col. Magruder
and Marsh Fouché came out of the crowd and hailed
me. They said they were on furlough and trying to
make their way to Uncle Fouché's plantation in Appling
County. I told them my troubles, and they went
to hunt up Fred for me, but must have gotten swallowed
up in the crowd themselves, for I never saw
either of them again. At last I sent for the conductor
to unlock the door so that I could get out of
the car and begin a search on my own account. Just
as I had stepped out on the platform Fred himself
came pushing through the crowd and sprang up beside
me. He said that some of the passengers who had
come with us from Cuthbert, happened to hear him
say that he was going to South-West Georgia to get
his sisters, and told him that we were there.

From Fort Valley we traveled without interruption
to Macon, where the excitement is at its climax. The
Yankees are expected here at any moment, from both
north and south, having divided their forces at Tuskegee,
it is said, and sent one column by way of Union
Springs and Columbus, and another through Opelika
and West Point. I saw some poor little fortifications
thrown up along the line of the South-Western, with
a handful of men guarding them, and that is the only
preparation for defense I have seen. We are told
that the city is to be defended, but if that is so, the
Lord only knows where the men are to come from.
The general opinion seems to be that it is to be evacuated,
and every preparation seems to be going forward
to that end. All the horses that could be found have
been pressed for the removal of government stores,
and we had great difficulty in getting our baggage
from the dépot to the hotel. Mr. Legriel's nephew,
Robert Scott, was at the train to take us out to Lily's,
but Fred thought it best for us to stay at the hotel, as
he wants to leave in the morning by the first train over
the Macon & Western. Mulberry Street, in front of
the Lanier House, is filled with officers and men rushing
to and fro, and everything and everybody seems to
be in the wildest excitement.... In the hotel parlor,
when I came from Lily's, whom should I find but
Mr. Adams, our little Yankee preacher! I used to like
him, but now I hate to look at him just because he is a
Yankee. What is it, I wonder, that makes them so

different from us, even when they mean to be good
Southerners! You can't even make one of them look
like us, not if you were to dress him up in a full suit
of Georgia jeans. I used to have some Christian
feeling towards Yankees, but now that they have invaded
our country and killed so many of our men and
desecrated so many homes, I can't believe that when
Christ said "Love your enemies," he meant Yankees.
Of course I don't want their souls to be lost, for that
would be wicked, but as they are not being punished
in this world, I don't see how else they are going to
get their deserts.

April 18, Tuesday. - The first train on the Georgia
R.R., from Atlanta to Augusta, was scheduled to run
through to-day, and we started off on the Macon &
Western so as to reach Atlanta in time to take the
next one down, to-morrow. There was such a crowd
waiting at the dépot that we could hardly push our
way through, and when the ladies' car was opened
there was such a rush that we considered ourselves
lucky to get in at all. Jenny and Jule were with us,
and we were fortunate enough to get seats together.
Fred and Mr. Toombs had great difficulty in getting
our trunks aboard, and were obliged to leave us to
look out for ourselves, while they attended to the baggage.
Many people had to leave theirs behind, and
some decided to stay with their trunks; they contained
all that some poor refugees had left them. The trains
that went out this morning were supposed to be the

last that would leave the city, as the Yankees were
expected before night, and many predicted that we
would be captured. There was a terrible rush on all
the outgoing trains. Ours had on board a quantity of
government specie and the assets of four banks, besides
private property, aggregating all together, it was
said, more than seventeen million dollars - and there
were somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,000 passengers.
People who could not get inside were hanging
on wherever they could find a sticking place; the
aisles and platforms down to the last step were full
of people clinging on like bees swarming round the
doors of a hive. It took two engines to pull us up the
heavy grade around Vineville, and we were more than
an hour behind time, in starting, at that. Meanwhile,
all sorts of rumors were flying. One had it that the
road was cut at Jonesborough, then, at Barnesville,
and finally that a large force of the enemy was at
Thomaston advancing toward the road with a view
to capturing our train. I never saw such wild excitement
in my life. Many people left the cars at the last
moment before we steamed out, preferring to be
caught in Macon rather than captured on the road, but
their places were rapidly filled by more adventurous
spirits. A party of refugees from Columbus were
seated near us, and they seemed nearly crazed with
excitement. Mary Eliza Rutherford, who was always
a great scatter-brain when I knew her at school,
was among them, and she jumped upon the seat, tore

down her back hair and went off into regular hysterics
at the idea of falling into the hands of the Yankees.
Such antics would have been natural enough in the
beginning of the war, when we were new to these experiences,
but now that we are all old soldiers, and
used to raids and vicissitudes, people ought to know
how to face them quietly. Of course it would have
been dreadful to be captured and have your baggage
rifled and lose all your clothes, but if the Yankees
had actually caught us, I don't think I would have
gone crazy over it. So many sensational reports kept
coming in that I finally lost patience and felt like saying
something cross to everybody that brought me a
fresh bit of news. Before we left Macon, Mr. Edward
Shepherd gave me the worst fright I almost ever
had, by telling me that my trunk and Jenny Toombs's
had been thrown out of the baggage car and were
lying on the track, but this proved to be a false alarm,
like so many others. Then somebody came in and
reported that the superintendent of the road had a
dispatch in his hand at that moment, stating that the
enemy was already in Barnesville. The statement
seemed so authoritative that Fred went to Gen.
Mackall himself, and was advised by him to continue
his journey, as no official notice had been received of
the cutting of the road. At last, to the great relief of
us all, the train steamed out of Macon and traveled
along in peace till it reached Goggins's Station, four
miles from Barnesville, where it was stopped by some

country people who said that the down train from
Atlanta had been captured and the Yankees were just
five miles beyond Barnesville waiting for us. A council
was held by the railroad officials and some of the
army officers on board, at which it was decided that
the freight we were carrying was too valuable to be
risked, although the news was not very reliable, having
been brought in by two schoolboys. There was danger
also, it was suggested, that a raiding party might
mistake such a very long and crowded train, where
the men were nearly all forced out on the platforms,
for a movement of troops and fire into us. I confess
to being pretty badly scared at this possibility, but the
women on board seemed to have worked off their
excitement by this time, and we all kept quiet and behaved
ourselves very creditably. While the council
was still in session, fresh reports came in confirming
those already brought, and we put back to Macon,
without standing on the order of our going. Helen
Swift, a friend of the Toombses, who had joined us
at Macon, lives only fifteen miles from the place where
we turned back. She was bitterly disappointed, and
I don't blame her for nearly crying her eyes out. Mr.
Adams undertook to administer spiritual consolation,
but I don't think Helen was very spiritually-minded
towards Yankees just at that time.

Excited crowds were waiting at all the stations as
we went back, and the news we brought increased the
ferment tenfold. The general impression seems to be

that the Yanks are advancing upon Macon in three
columns, and that they will reach the city by tomorrow
or next day, at latest. We came back to the
Lanier House, and Fred hopes to get us out by way
of Milledgeville, before they arrive. When our train
got back to Macon, the men on board had gradually
dropped off on the way, so that I don't suppose there
were more than 200 or 300 remaining of all that had
gone out in the morning. The demoralization is complete.
We are whipped, there is no doubt about it.
Everybody feels it, and there is no use for the men
to try to fight any longer, though none of us like to
say so.

Just before we reached Macon, the down train,
which had been reported captured, overtook us at a
siding, with the tantalizing news that we might have
got through to Atlanta if we had gone straight on.
The Yankees were twelve miles off at the time of its
reported capture, and cut the road soon after it passed.
There was an immense crowd at the dépot on our
return, and when I saw what a wild commotion
the approach of the Yankees created, I lost all hope and
gave up our cause as doomed. We made a brave fight
but the odds against us were too great. The spell of
invincibility has left us and gone over to the heavy
battalions of the enemy. As I drove along from the
station to the hotel, I could see that preparations were
being made to evacuate the city. Government stores
were piled up in the streets and all the horses and

wagons that could be pressed into service were being
hastily loaded in the effort to remove them. The rush
of men had disappeared from Mulberry St. No
more gay uniforms, no more prancing horses, but only
a few ragged foot soldiers with wallets and knapsacks
on, ready to march - Heaven knows where. Gen.
Elzey and staff left early in the morning to take up
their new quarters either in Augusta or Washington,
and if we had only known it, we might have gone out
with them. I took a walk on the streets while waiting
to get my room at the hotel, and found everything in
the wildest confusion. The houses were closed, and
doleful little groups were clustered about the street
corners discussing the situation. All the intoxicating
liquors that could be found in the stores, warehouses,
and barrooms, had been seized by the authorities and
emptied on the ground. In some places the streets
smelt like a distillery, and I saw men, boys, and
negroes down on their knees lapping it up from the
gutter like dogs. Little children were staggering
about in a state of beastly intoxication. I think there
can be no more dreary spectacle in the world than a
city on the eve of evacuation, unless it is one that has
already fallen into the hands of the enemy. I returned
to the hotel with a heavy heart, for while out
I heard fresh rumors of Lee's surrender. No one
seems to doubt it, and everybody feels ready to give
up hope. "It is useless to struggle longer," seems to
be the common cry, and the poor wounded men go

hobbling about the streets with despair on their faces.
There is a new pathos in a crutch or an empty sleeve,
now, that we know it was all for nothing.

April 19, Wednesday. Milledgeville. - They began
to evacuate the city [Macon] at dusk yesterday, and
all through the night we could hear the tramp of men
and horses, mingled with the rattle of artillery and
baggage wagons. Mr. Toombs was very averse to
spending the night in Macon, and we were all anxious
to push ahead to the end of our journey, but it was
impossible to get a conveyance of any sort. Sam
Hardeman, Jule's devoted, spent the evening with us,
and as they are both very musical, we tried to keep up
our spirits by singing some of the favorite war songs,
but they seemed more like dirges now, and we gave up
and went to our rooms. We got to bed early, knowing
we must be at the dépot betimes in the morning, to
secure seats on the train for Milledgeville, and had
just thrown ourselves on the bed, when Jenny and
Jule came running in, frightened out of their wits, declaring
that a man and his wife were quarreling in
the room on one side of them, and a party of drunken
men on the other, trying to open their door. They
can beat any girls I know stirring up imaginary scarecrows,
from a ghost to a burglar, and we tried to laugh
away their foolish fears, but as we failed to pacify
them we gave up our room to them and took theirs.
We heard nothing more of either drunken men or
domestic broils, and were so tired that we slept like

logs till some time way in the night, we were wakened
by a terrific thunder storm. A bolt struck one of the
lightning rods of the hotel and made such a fearful
crash that many of the guests, suddenly roused
from their sleep, took it for a Yankee shell, and for a time
the wildest excitement prevailed. Capt. Thomas told
me afterwards that he never jumped so far in his life
as when roused by that thunderbolt, which, in his first
bewilderment, he mistook for the explosion of a shell.
He didn't want to be killed in his bed now, he said,
after going through the whole four years of the war.
I had been awake some time, listening to the rain, when
the shock came, and knew what it was, but I am just
as much afraid of thunder and lightning as of Yankee
bombs, and when that bolt struck, Mett and I flew
across the corridor in our nightgowns to find the
Toombs girls. We had some funny experiences, for
it seems to me that everybody at the hotel was running
round promiscuously in the corridors, but we were all
too much excited to notice each other's dress - or
rather, undress. Once, in my haste, I knocked at the
wrong door, and it was some time before we could
find the girls. Jenny and Jule had made for their
father's room at the first alarm, and thinking they had
found it, Jenny bolted in and called to a man in bed
whom she took for her father. The man was either
too drunk or too much of a gentleman to wake, and
kept his eyes shut till Jenny made her escape. When
we got back to their room, we all four piled into bed

We were up almost by daylight, and even then
found others starting to the dépot ahead of us. There
was great difficulty in getting transportation for baggage,
and we had to foot it ourselves. The Yankees
were expected every minute, and as this was our very
last chance to escape, there was a great rush to get on
board the train. Brother Troup had not been able to
carry out his order to join Gen. Wofford, and sent our
trunks to the station on a government wagon, and
Gen. Cobb gave Mr. Toombs transportation for it on
one of his cars, as far as Milledgeville. We gratified
a pretty girl from Montgomery, and her escort, by
taking their baggage to the station with ours. We
saw one overloaded team take fright at a car whistle
and run away, scattering the trunks piled up on it, and
bursting some of them open - a serious misfortune in
these times, when none of us have clothes to spare.
We did not wait at the hotel for breakfast, but started
off on foot with cold biscuits in our hands, which were
all we had to eat. We reached the dépot at least an
hour before the schedule time. Three long trains,
heavily laden, went down the South-Western, and
Brother Troup got aboard one of them. I am glad he
will be with sister in these trying times. There were
enough people and baggage still at the dépot to load a
dozen trains, and the people scrambled for places next
the track. Sidney Lanier, a friend of Fred's, was

there, trying to get aboard one of the outgoing trains.
Fred introduced him, but we soon lost each other in
the crowd. The poor fellow is just up from a spell
of typhoid fever, and looked as thin and white as a
ghost. He said Harry Day was left behind sick, in
Macon. When the Central train backed up, there was
such a rush to get aboard that I thought we would
have the life squeezed out of us. I saw one man
knock a woman down and run right over her. I hope
the Yankees will catch him. Fred and Mr. Toombs
had to give their whole attention to the baggage, but
we girls are all good travelers, and having legs of our
own, which our trunks had not, we pushed our way
successfully through the crowd. I was assisted by Mr.
Duval, one of Cousin Bolling's patients whom I met
in Cuthbert, and the four of us were comfortably
seated. Nearly all our companions on yesterday's
wild-goose chase towards Atlanta were aboard, and
we also found Mrs. Walthall, going to Washington to
visit Gen. Toombs's family, and Mrs. Paul Hammond,
on her way to Augusta. Many people had to leave
their baggage behind, and others still were not able to
find even standing room for themselves. Gov. Brown
was on board, and Mr. Toombs introduced him to me.
He looked at me with a half-embarrassed expression
and poked out his hand with no pretense at cordiality.
Whether this was due to resentment at father's political
stand, or merely to preoccupation about his own
rather precarious affairs, I could not tell. He is a

regular Barebones in appearance, thin, wiry, angular,
with a sallow complexion and iron-gray hair. His
face wears an expression of self-assertion rather than
obstinacy and I couldn't help thinking how well he
would have fitted in with Cromwell's Ironsides. He
had on a rusty, short-tailed black alpaca coat that had
a decidedly home-made set. He looked "Joe Brown,"
every inch of him, and if I had met him in Jericho, I
would have said, "There goes Joe Brown." But when
we reached Milledgeville, he heaped coals of fire on
my head by offering us his carriage to drive to the
hotel in. Every horse, mule, and vehicle in the place
had been "pressed" for removing the government
stores that had been shipped from Macon; there was
not even an ox-cart or a negro with a wheel-barrow
to be hired, and the hotel full a mile away, and the
sun blazing hot. Still, I declined at first, for I could
not make up my mind to accept a favor from a man
whose political course I respected so little, but the
Toombses piled in and the governor himself courteously
insisted that the rest of us should follow, or he
would send the carriage back, he said, if it was too
crowded. Mett and I then got in and Mrs. Walthall
climbed in after us. I felt rather ashamed of myself
for all the mean things I have said about the old governor,
but I couldn't help laughing at Mrs. Walthall,
who overwhelmed him with gracious speeches, and
then, the minute his back was turned, shook her fist
at him out of the window, and added in an undertone:

"But I would help to hang you to-morrow, you old
rascal!" This is politics, I suppose, with the s left off.
*

At the hotel we found all
our traveling companions,
who had come out from Macon, with a number of
other fugitives, and while waiting for Fred and Mr.
Toombs to hunt up conveyances, we amused ourselves
getting acquainted and exchanging experiences
with our fellow sufferers. Among the ones I liked
best, were Mrs. Young and Dr. Morrow, from Marietta.
Mrs. Walthall introduced us to her escort, Col.
Lockett, an old bachelor, but as foolish about the girls
as if he was a widower. Our pretty girl from Montgomery
was there, too, but I did not learn her name,
and a poor little Mrs. Smith from somewhere, with a
sick, puny baby that everybody felt sorry for. Mrs.
Howell and Mrs. Wardlaw, mother and sister of Mrs.
Jefferson Davis, were also among the unfortunates
stranded at that awful Milledgeville Hotel. Mrs.
Howell was a stout old lady with a handsome, but
rather determined face, and pretty, old-fashioned gray
curls falling behind her ears. Col. Lockett innocently

pointed her out to me as the housekeeper, when he
saw me wandering about in search of a clean towel,
but I told him I had been at the Milledgeville Hotel
before and he couldn't make me believe that anybody
connected with it could show a pound of superfluous
flesh - a stroke of wisdom on my part that saved me
from committing a dreadful faux pas. Afterwards,
when we met in the parlor, she lost no time in letting
us all know that she was the president's mother-in-law,
and then went on to pay her compliments to
everything and everybody opposed to Jeff Davis,
Gov. Brown coming in for the lion's share. Mrs.
Wardlaw, her daughter, had a good voice, and her
sweet singing helped to make the time pass a little less
tediously, but there her individuality seemed to end.
Capt. Thomas, a young officer traveling with them,
was charming; I don't know how we would have got
through that "long, weary day" without him.

After we had waited a long time, Fred and Mr.
Toombs came in and reported that it was impossible
to get a conveyance of any kind to Mayfield. It was
all they could do to get our baggage hauled from the
dépot and we would probably have to spend the night
where we were. Every conveyance in town had been
"pressed" for removing government stores - where?
Augusta is supposed to be the next objective point of
the enemy, and Milledgeville is directly on the road
from there to Macon. The panic has extended here,
and everybody that can get out of the way is preparing

for flight. Their experience with Sherman's army
last winter naturally doesn't make these people long
for another visit. Fred had engaged a two-horse
wagon for one thousand dollars, but while he was
having our trunks put on it, a government official
came up and "pressed" it. As we couldn't help ourselves,
we resolved to make the best of the situation,
so we went to our room to get a little rest and make
ourselves presentable before dinner-time. We had
engaged a large room with two beds so that we girls
could all be together, but when we entered, our hearts
sank, accustomed as we are to war-time fare. There
was no slop tub, wash basin, pitcher nor towels, and
the walls on each side of the beds were black with
tobacco spit. The fireplace was a dump heap that was
enough to turn the stomach of a pig, and over the
mantel some former occupant had inscribed this caution:

"One bed has lice in it, the other fleas, and both bugs;
chimney smokes; better change."

Prompted by curiosity I turned down the cover of
one bed, and started such a stampede among the bugs
that we all made for the door as fast as our feet would
carry us and ordered another room, which, however,
did not prove much better. Our next step was to
make a foray for water and towels. The only water
supply we could find was in a big washtub at the head
of the stairs, where everybody stopped to drink, those
who had no cups stooping down and lapping it up with

their hands, or dipping in their heads. There was but
one chambermaid to the whole establishment, and she
was as hard to catch as the Irishman's flea. Both
Fred and Mr. Toombs were off, hunting for conveyances,
so we had to shift for ourselves. We tried
to ring a bell that hung in the passage, but Sherman's
angels had cut the cord. A young captain who was
watching our maneuvers, advised us to cry "Fire!"
as the surest way of getting water brought. Just at
this time, Fred's boy, Arch, came up and we made
him shovel some of the dirt out of our room and bring
up fresh water in a broken pitcher we found there.
After making ourselves as decent as circumstances
would permit, we went down to the dining-room.
There was literally nothing on the table but some
broken crockery, the remains of Sherman's little teaparty,
but one of the black waiters promised to get us
a nice dinner if we would "jest have de patience to
deviate back to de parlor" and wait a little while, till
he could get it ready. He was so polite and plausible
that we "deviated," and after more than half an hour,
went back to the dining-room, where we exercised our
patience for another half-hour, when, at last, he came
bustling in with some ham and eggs and raw corn
bread. I looked about on my plate for a clean spot
on which to deposit my share, and, finding none,
dabbed it down at random, and went for it, dirt and
all, for I was desperately hungry. Soon after dinner
Mr. Toombs came in to say that Gov. Brown had

provided him with a conveyance for himself and
daughters and they were to start at once. After the
Toombses left, Mrs. Walthall asked Mett and me to
share her room, as she was afraid to stay by herself,
and we, too, were glad of a companion. Late in the
afternoon we went out and saw the Georgia cadets on
dress parade in front of the capitol. Mrs. Walthall
and Col. Lockett joined us there, with several gentlemen
that we had met at the hotel, and we had a fine
time. Among the cadets we recognized Milton Reese,
Tom Hill, and Davy Favor, from Washington, and as
soon as the drill was over, we went into the capitol
with them and saw the destruction the Yankees had
made. The building was shockingly defaced, like
everything else in Milledgeville. There don't seem to
be a clean or a whole thing left in the town. The boys
told us that the cadets are so hot against the governor
for not ordering them into active service that they had
hung him in effigy right there in the capitol grounds.
His son is among them, and the boys say the governor
won't let them fight because he is afraid Julius
might get hurt. The truth is, they ought all to be at
home in their trundle beds, Julius with the rest, for
they are nothing but children. When we returned to
the hotel, Fred met us with the joyful news that he
had found a man with a miserable little wagon and
two scrubby mules hid out in the woods, who had
agreed to take us to Mayfield for twenty-five hundred
dollars, provided Fred would get his team exempted

from empressment. He (Fred) went at once to Col.
Pickett, who granted the exemption, and we could be
off as early in the morning as we chose. We spent
part of the evening in the hotel parlor, trying to be
cheerful by the light of a miserable tallow dip, but soon
gave it up and came away to our room.

April 20, Thursday. Sparta, Ga. - I went to bed
about eleven last night, but never slept a wink for bedbugs
and cockroaches, to say nothing of the diabolical
noises in the streets. All night long, as I lay awake,
I was disturbed by the sound of men cursing and
swearing and singing rowdy songs in and around the
hotel. About two o'clock, in the midst of this pandemonium,
a string band began to play under our window,
and it seemed to me I had never heard such
heavenly music in my life as this was, in contrast with
the vile noises I had been listening to. About eight
o'clock in the morning our wagon was at the door and
we bade a joyous farewell to Milledgeville. It was
only a shabby little covered cart, with the bows so
short that if we attempted to sit upright the cover
rested on our heads and the sun baked our brains
through it. Fred and Arch had to walk, the wretched
team being hardly able to carry Mett and me and the
trunks. We traveled at the rate of about two miles
an hour and a cost of one hundred dollars a mile.
The day was intensely hot, and the dust stifling. I
tried to relieve the poor mules by walking up some of
the worst hills, but the blazing sun got the better of

my humanity and I crawled into the wagon again. We
crossed the Oconee on a pontoon bridge, where the fat
old ferryman now acts as toll-collector. About a
mile beyond the river we turned off and traveled to
Sparta by a different road from the one we had followed
last winter. It was longer, but better than the
other, not being so much traveled, and we hoped to
get rid of some of the dust; but in this we were disappointed,
for we were mixed up all day in an endless
succession of wagon trains, soldiers, and refugees,
that made us wonder who there was to go by the other
road. After the first few miles we were so tired that
we took off our hats and lay down in the wagon to
take a nap. When we waked we found that both hats
and a basket containing all our toilet articles, had
jolted out and been lost. So many people had passed
us that Fred said it was no use to try to get them
back, but I made Arch take one of the mules out of
the wagon and go back to look for them, and, as much
to my surprise as delight, he recovered the basket. I
was so glad to see it that I forgot to grieve over the
hats. Besides my brush and comb and tooth-brush, it
contained all the leaves of my journal that I have
written since leaving home last winter, which I had
torn out of the book on the stampede from Macon,
fearing my trunk might be lost. What a mess there
would be if it had been found by some of the people
I have been writing about! When I once got it back
I hardly took my hands off it again all day. At noon

we dined on a dirty biscuit apiece that we had brought
from Milledgeville, for we could buy nothing to eat
along the road. The country seems to have pretty
well recovered from the effects of Sherman's march,
so far as appearances go; the fields are tilled and
crops growing, but people are still short of provisions,
and nobody wants to take Confederate money. The
rumors about Lee's surrender, together with the panicky
state of affairs at home, have sent our depreciated
currency rolling down hill with accelerated velocity.

Between six and seven in the evening we reached
Sparta, and found one hotel closed and the other full
of smallpox. We didn't like to impose on the hospitality
of the Simpsons again, and Col. Lockett, who
had secured lodging for Mrs. Walthall at a private
house, advised us to go on to Culver's, where we had
stopped to change horses last winter, but our sorry
little team was too broken down to carry us any
farther. While we were standing in the street discussing
what had best be done, a nice-looking old gentleman
called Fred aside, and insisted that we should
go to his house. He had heard Col. Lockett call us by
name, he said, and being a great friend and admirer
of father's, declared that Judge Andrews's children
should never want for a lodging as long as he had a
roof over his head. He gave his name as Harris,
and said there was not a family in Sparta but would
be proud to entertain us if they knew who we were, so
great was their love and respect for our father. It

made me feel good to hear that, for his being such a
strong Union man has made father unpopular in some
parts of the State. I hate the old Union myself, but
I love father, and it makes me furious for anybody
to say anything against him. It would seem as if a
good many people about here quietly shared his opinions,
or at any rate, respected them, for Mr. Soularde
and several others came up as soon as they learned
our name, and invited us to their houses, and said it
would always be a pleasure to them to entertain any
of Judge Andrews's family.

We were so tired of being pounded and jolted in
our dusty little cart that we preferred walking to Mr.
Harris's, in spite of the disreputable appearance we
made, hatless and gloveless and dirty as we were. We
met the Simpson girls on the way, with Jenny and
Jule, and they invited us to go home with them, but
Mr. Harris had the first claim, and to tell the truth, I
had taken a liking to him before I had known him ten
minutes, and would not, on any account, have missed
the pleasure of a nearer acquaintance. When we
reached his home my anticipations were more than
realized. It was a large white house in the midst of
a beautiful garden, where roses of all sorts were running
riot, filling the air with fragrance and the earth
with beauty. On the colonnade were a number of
guests whom the hospitality of our host had brought
together, and among them we were delighted to meet
again our fellow travelers, Mrs. Young and Dr. Morrow.

Mrs. Harris met us with such a warm, motherly
welcome that I felt like throwing myself on her breast,
but remembering how dirty and draggled out I was, I
practiced the Golden Rule, and did as I would be done
by. We were shown at once to a beautiful, clean
room, with plenty of water and towels, and oh! the
luxury of a good bath! But when I went to get out
some clean clothes, I found that among other things, I
had lost my keys and could not get into my trunk. I
borrowed what I could from Metta, but her things
don't fit me, and I made a comical appearance. I was
too hungry to care, however, after starving since
Monday, and such a supper as we had was enough to
make one forget all the ills of life. Delicious fresh
milk and crabber, sweet yellow butter, with crisp
beaten biscuits to go with it, smoking hot waffles, and
corn batter cakes brown as a nut and crisped round
the edges till they looked as if bordered with lace. It
was a feast for hungry souls to remember. After
supper we went into the parlor and had music. We
tried to sing some of our old rebel songs, but the words
stuck in our throats. Nobody could sing, and then
Clara Harris played "Dixie," but it sounded like a
dirge.

The house was so full that Mrs. Harris was obliged to
crowd us a little, and Mrs. Morrow shared our
room with Mett and me. We had a funny time talking
over our experiences. She says that the charming
captain fell dead in love with me at Milledgeville, and

was so struck with my appearance that he couldn't
rest till he found out my name. He asked her all
sorts of questions about me, and I almost laughed myself
hoarse at the extravagant things she told him.
And she didn't know me, either, any better than he
did, but that only made it the more amusing.

April 21, Friday. Haywood. - That delicious clean
bed in Sparta! I never had a sweeter sleep in my
life than the few hours I spent there. Fred said we
must be off at daylight so as to reach Mayfield in time
for the train, with our sorry team, so we bid our hosts
good-by before going to bed in order not to rouse
them at such a heathenish hour. But about two
o'clock in the morning the whole town was roused by
a courier who came in with news that the Yankees
were in Putnam County, only twelve miles off. It is
absurd for people to fly into a panic over every wild
rumor that gets afloat, but I was glad the courier
came, for three o'clock was the hour appointed for us
to start, and I was sleeping so soundly that I am sure
I would never have waked in time but for him. The
moon had just risen as we moved out of Sparta, and
I walked with Fred in the pleasant night air till day
began to dawn. We tried to get breakfast at Culver's,
and again at Whaley's, the only public houses on the
way, but were refused at both places, so we had to
satisfy ourselves with the recollection of Mrs. Harris's
good supper and a crust of stale bread that I
found in Arch's basket. We reached Mayfield about

nine and had to wait an hour for the cars to start.
Mrs. Hammond had got there before us. She said
that she could find no shelter the night before, and
had to sleep out under the trees with her little children.
She is a sensible woman, and didn't seem disposed
to make a martyr of herself, but I felt ashamed
for Georgia hospitality. Our other companions joined
us at Mayfield, and the Toombses brought the general
with them. I was glad to see him safe thus far, out
of Yankee clutches, but I would not like to be in his
shoes when the end comes. He brought confirmation
of Lee's surrender, and of the armistice between
Johnston and Sherman. Alas, we all know only too
well what that armistice means! It is all over with
us now, and there is nothing to do but bow our heads
in the dust and let the hateful conquerors trample us
under their feet. There is a complete revulsion in
public feeling. No more talk now about fighting to
the last ditch; the last ditch has already been reached;
no more talk about help from France and England,
but all about emigration to Mexico and Brazil. We
are irretrievably ruined, past the power of France and
England to save us now. Europe has quietly folded
her hands and beheld a noble nation perish. God
grant she may yet have cause to repent her cowardice
and folly in suffering this monstrous power that has
crushed us to roll on unchecked. We fought nobly
and fell bravely, overwhelmed by numbers and
resources, with never a hand held out to save us. I

hate all the world when I think of it. I am crushed
and bowed down to the earth, in sorrow, but not in
shame. No! I am more of a rebel to-day than ever
I was when things looked brightest for the Confederacy.
And it makes me furious to see how many
Union men are cropping up everywhere, and how few
there are, to hear them talk now, who really approved
of secession, though four years ago, my own dear old
father - I hate to say it, but he did what he thought
was right - was almost the only man in Georgia who
stood out openly for the Union.

We found the railroad between Mayfield and
Camack even more out of repair than when we passed
over it last winter, and the cars traveled but little
faster than our mule team. However, we reached
Camack in time for the train from Augusta, and as
we drew up at the platform, somebody thrust his head
in at the window and shouted: "Lincoln's been assassinated!"
We had heard so many absurd rumors
that at first we were all inclined to regard this as a
jest. Somebody laughed and asked if the people of
Camack didn't know that April Fools' Day was past;
a voice behind us remarked that Balaam's ass wasn't
dead yet, and was answered by a cry of "Here's your
mule!" * But soon the truth of the
report was confirmed.
Some fools laughed and applauded, but wise
people looked grave and held their peace. It is a

terrible blow to the South, for it places that vulgar
renegade, Andy Johnson, in power, and will give the
Yankees an excuse for charging us with a crime which
was in reality only the deed of an irresponsible madman.
Our papers ought to reprobate it universally.

About one o'clock we reached Barnett, where I used
to feel as much at home as in Washington itself, but
there was such a crowd, such a rush, such a hurrying
to and fro at the quiet little dépot, that I could hardly
recognize it. The train on our Washington branch
was crammed with soldiers; I saw no familiar face
except Mr. Edmundson, the conductor. There is so
much travel over this route now that three or four
trains are run between Washington and Barnett daily,
and sometimes double that number. We looked out
eagerly for the first glimpse of home, and when the
old town clock came into view, a shout of joy went
up from us returning wanderers. When we drew up
at the dépot, amid all the bustle and confusion of an
important military post, I could hardly believe that
this was the same quiet little village we had left sleeping
in the winter sunshine five months ago. Long
trains of government wagons were filing through the
streets and we ran against squads of soldiers at every
turn. Father met us at the dépot, delighted to have
us under his protection once more, and the rest of the
family, with old Toby frisking and barking for joy,
were waiting for us at the street gate. Mary Day
isn't able to walk that far yet, but we met her in the

sitting-room. She is not exactly pretty, but what I
should call picturesque-looking, and her eyes are beautiful.
Oh, what a happy meeting we all had, and how
beautiful home does look, with the green leaves on the
trees and the Cherokee roses in full bloom, flinging
their white festoons clear over the top of the big sycamore
by the gate! Surely this old home of ours is
the choicest spot of all the world.

The first thing we did after seeing everybody and
shaking hands all round with the negroes, was to take
a good bath, and I had just finished dressing when
Mrs. Elzey called, with Cousin Bolling's friend, Capt.
Hudson, of Richmond. He was an attaché of the
American legation in Berlin while Cousin Bolling was
there studying his profession, and they have both come
back with the charming manners and small affectations
that Americans generally acquire in Europe, especially
if they have associated much with the aristocracy.
People may laugh, but these polished manners do
make men very nice and comfortable to be with.
They are so adaptable, and always know just the right
thing to say and do.

Mrs. Elzey says the general is coming to Washington
with the rest of his staff, to remain till something
is decided, and we begin to know what is before us.

CHAPTER IV

THE PASSING OF THE CONFEDERACY

April 22 - May 5, 1865

EXPLANATORY NOTE. - The
little town of Washington,
Ga., where the remaining events of this narrative took
place, was the center of a wealthy planting district about
fifty miles above Augusta, on a branch of the Georgia
Railroad. The population at this time was about 2,200,
one-third of which was probably white. Like most of the
older towns in the State it is built around an open square,
in the center of which stood the quaint old county courthouse
so often mentioned in this part of the diary, with
the business houses of the village grouped around it. On
the north side was the old bank building, where Mr. Davis
held his last meeting with such of his official family
as could be got together, and signed his last official paper
as president of the Southern Confederacy. Two rooms
on the lower floor were used for business purposes, while
the rest of the building was occupied as a residence by
the cashier. On the outbreak of the war the bank went
out of business, but Dr. J. J. Robertson, who was cashier
at the time, continued to occupy the building in the interest
of the stockholders. Mrs. Robertson, like everybody else
in the village at that time, had received into her house a
number of refugees and other strangers, whom the collapse
of the Confederacy had stranded there. Its original
name clung to the building long after it ceased to have

anything to do with finance, and hence the frequent allusions
to "the bank" in the diary.

And now, that the narrative of the diary may be clearer,
I must crave the reader's indulgence while I add a few
words about the personal surroundings of the writer. A
diary, unfortunately, is from its very nature such a self-centered
recital that the personality of the author, however
insignificant, cannot be got rid of.

My father, Judge Garnett Andrews, was a Georgian, a
lawyer by profession, and for nearly thirty years of his
life, judge of the Northern Circuit, holding that office at
the time of his death in 1873. He was stoutly opposed to
secession, but made no objection to his sons' going into
the Confederate army, and I am sure would not have
wished to see them fighting against the South. Although
he had retired from public life at the time, he was elected
to the legislature in 1860 under rather unusual circumstances;
for the secession sentiment in the county was
overwhelming, and his unwavering opposition to it well
known. He did his best to hold Georgia in the Union,
but he might as well have tried to tie up the northwest
wind in the corner of a pocket handkerchief. The
most he could do was to advocate the call of a convention
instead of voting the State out of the Union on the spot.

I shall never forget that night when the news came that
Georgia had seceded. While the people of the village
were celebrating the event with bonfires and bell ringing
and speech making, he shut himself up in his house, darkened
the windows, and paced up and down the room in
the greatest agitation. Every now and then, when the
noise of the shouting and the ringing of bells would penetrate
to our ears through the closed doors and windows, he
would pause and exclaim: "Poor fools! They may ring

their bells now, but they will wring their hands - yes, and
their hearts, too - before they are done with it."

This scene made a deep impression on my mind, as may
be judged from the frequent allusions to it in the diary.
My sister Metta and I were pouting in a corner because
he would not allow us to go and see the fun. My two
brothers, Henry and Garnett - Fred was on the plantation
in Mississippi - were taking an active part in the
celebration, and I myself had helped to make the flag
that was waving in honor of the event, which he so
bitterly deplored. It was the same Lone Star banner of
which mention is made in the text. My brother Henry,
who was about as hot-headed a fire-eater as could be
found in the South, had brought the material to his young
wife - Cora, of the journal - and we made it on the sly,
well knowing that our "Bonnie Blue Flag" would soon
become a "Conquered Banner," or rather a confiscated
one, if father should once get wind of what we were
about. It consisted of a large five-pointed star, the emblem
of States' Rights, and was made of white domestic
on a field of blue. It was afterwards ripped off in the
strenuous days when our boys were following the "Stars and
Bars," and the blue field used to line the blanket of a
Confederate soldier. What was left of it when he came
back is still preserved in the family.

My father was not what would now be called a rich
man, though his fortune was ample for those times. I do
not think he owned more than 200 negroes. The extravagant
ideas that have been propagated by irresponsible
writers about the fabulous wealth of the old planters had
no foundation in fact, outside a few exceptional cases.
There was, at the time of which I am writing, but a single
man in Georgia who was reputed to be worth as much as
a million dollars, and he gained not one iota of importance

or influence from this source. His family lived very much
as the rest of us did, and their social position was as good
as anybody's, but for that divinity which would now attach
to the mere vulgar fact of being the richest man of
his state, it is doubtful whether, if a list were made of
the twenty-five most influential families in Georgia at
that time, his name would even be mentioned in it.

While the structure of our social fabric was aristocratic,
in the actual relations of the white population with one another
it was extremely democratic. Life was simple,
patriarchal, unostentatious. Our chief extravagance
was the exercise of unlimited hospitality. Anybody that
was respectable was welcome to come as often as they
liked and stay as long as they pleased, and I remember
very few occasions during my father's life when there
were no guests in the house. His family proper, at this
time, not counting guests, included, besides his wife and
children (there were seven of us), my brother Henry's
wife and her little daughter, Maud, now Mrs. J. K. Ohl,
known to the press as Annulet Andrews; Mrs. L. S.
Brown ("Aunt Sallie" of the diary), and Miss Eliza
Bowen, a niece of my father, who had been adopted into
his family many years before, on the death of her parents,
not as a dependent, but for the sake of the guidance and
protection which every "female" was supposed, in those
days, to require at the hand of her nearest male relation.
She was a woman of unusual intelligence, but full of
amusing eccentricities that were a constant source of
temptation to us fun-loving young people, and often got
us into trouble with our elders. She was known later as
the author of a successful school book, "Astronomy by
Observation."

"Aunt Sallie" was a quaint, lovable old lady, famous
for her good dinners and her wonderful frosted cakes,

without which no wedding supper in the village was complete.
But the accomplishment she took the greatest
pride in, was her gift for "writing poetry" - which confined
itself, however, to the innocent practice of composing
acrostics on the names of her friends. The deprecating,
yet self-conscious air with which these very original
productions were slipped into our hands on birthdays and
other anniversaries, was only less amusing than the verses
themselves. She had no children, but a little pet negro
named Simon, the son of a favorite maid who had died,
filled a large place in her affections and used to "bulldoze"
her as completely as if she had been the mother
of a dozen unruly boys of her own. We rather rejoiced
in her emancipation when the foolish lad deserted her
for the delights of freedom, soon after the close of the
war, but the kind-hearted old lady never ceased to mourn
over his ingratitude. She was a great beauty in her
youth, and to the day of her death, in 1866, retained a
coquettish regard for appearances, which showed itself in
a scrupulous anxiety about the set of her cap frills and the
fit of her prim, but always neat and handsome, black
gowns.

It was in the later years of her life, that she came to
live at Haywood in order to be near my mother, who
was her niece, and occupied a cottage that was built especially
for her in a corner of the yard. It was a common
custom in those days, when the demands of hospitality
outgrew the capacity of the planter's mansion, to
build one or more cottages near it to receive the overflow,
and hence, the old-fashioned Southern homestead was often
more like a small village than an ordinary residence.
There were two cottages, one on each side of the front
gate, at Haywood, one occupied by "Aunt Sallie," the
other built for the use of my married sister, Mrs. Troup

Butler, when she came up from the plantation with her
family to spend the summer. The main residence was
spoken of as "the big house," or simply, "the house," to
distinguish it from the other buildings. Including the
stables and negro quarters, there were, if I remember correctly,
fourteen buildings, besides "the big house," on the
grounds at Haywood, and this was not a plantation home
with its great population of field hands, but a town residence,
where there were never more than twenty or thirty
servants to be housed, including children.

The Irvin Artillery, so frequently alluded to, was the
first military company organized in the county, and contained
the flower of the youth of the village. It was
named for a prominent citizen of the town, father of
the unreconstructible "Charley" mentioned later, and an
uncle of the unwitting Maria, whose innocent remark
gave such umbrage to my father's belligerent daughter.

April 22, Saturday. - I went to bed as soon as I had
eaten supper last night and never did I enjoy a sweeter
rest; home beds are cleaner and softer than any others,
even Mrs. Harris's. I spent the better part of the
day unpacking and arranging my things. The house
is so crowded with company that I have had to give
up my room and double in with Mett. I keep my
clothes wherever I can find a place for them. We
went to walk after dinner and found the streets
swarming with people. Paroled men from Lee's
army are expected every day now, and the town is
already as full as it can hold. The only hotel has
been closed and private hospitality is taxed to the

utmost. While we were out, the Toombs girls called
with John Ficklen and that nice Capt. Thomas we met
in Milledgeville.

April 23, Sunday. - Gen. Elzey and staff arrived
early in the afternoon and called here at once. The
general has a fine, soldierly appearance and charming
manners, like all West Pointers - except, of course,
those brutes like Butler and Sherman and their murderous
clan. Capt. Irwin, Mrs. Elzey's brother, is
going to stay at our house, and the whole family has
fallen in love with him at first sight. He is the dearest,
jolliest fellow that ever lived, and keeps up his
spirits under circumstances that would have put down
even Mark Tapley. His wife and six daughters are
in the enemy's lines, at Norfolk; six daughters, in
these awful times! and the father of them can still laugh.
He has a way of screwing up his face when
he says anything funny that gives him an indescribably
comical appearance. This is enhanced by a little
round bald head, like Santa Claus, the result of a
singular accident, while he was still a young man. At
a dinner party given on the occasion of a wedding in
the family, one of the servants let fall a hot oyster
pate on top of his head. It blistered the scalp so that
the hair fell out and never grew back. He must have
been very good-natured not to assassinate that servant
on the spot.

April 24, Monday. - The shattered remains of
Lee's army are beginning to arrive. There is an endless

stream passing between the transportation office
and the dépot, and trains are going and coming at all
hours. The soldiers bring all sorts of rumors and
keep us stirred up in a state of never-ending excitement.
Our avenue leads from the principal street on
which they pass, and great numbers stop to rest in
the grove. Emily is kept busy cooking rations for
them, and pinched as we are ourselves for supplies it
is impossible to refuse anything to the men that have
been fighting for us. Even when they don't ask for
anything the poor fellows look so tired and hungry
that we feel tempted to give them everything we have.
Two nice-looking officers came to the kitchen door this
afternoon while I was in there making some sorghum
cakes to send to Gen. Elzeys camp They then
walked slowly through the back yard, and seemed
reluctant to tear themselves away from such a sweet,
beautiful place. Nearly everybody that passes the
street gate stops and looks up the avenue and I know
they can't help thinking what a beautiful place it is.
The Cherokee rose hedge is white with blooms. It is
glorious. A great many of the soldiers camp in the
grove, though Col. Weems [the Confederate commandant
of the post] has located a public camping-ground
for them further out of town. The officers often ask
for a night's lodging, but our house is always so full of
friends who have a nearer claim, that a great many
have to be refused. It hurts my conscience ever to
turn off a Confederate soldier on any account, but we

are so overwhelmed with company - friends and people
bringing letters of introduction - that the house, big
as it is, will hardly hold us all, and members of the
family have to pack together like sardines. Capt.
John Nightingale's servant came in this afternoon -
the "little Johnny Nightingale" I used to play with
down on the old Tallassee plantation - but reports
that he does not know where his master is. He says
the Yankees captured him (the negro) and took away
his master's horse that he was tending, but as soon as
night came on he made his escape on another horse
that he "took" from them, and put out for home.
He says he don't like the Yankees because they
"didn't show no respec' for his feelin's." He talks
with a strong salt-water brogue and they laughed at
him which he thought very ill-mannered. Father sent
him round to the negro quarters to wait till his master
turns up.

April 25, Tuesday. - Maj. Hall, one of Gen. Elzey's
staff, has been taken with typhoid fever, so father
sent out to the camp and told them to bring him to our
house, but Mrs. Robertson had a spare room at the
bank and took him there where he can be better cared
for than in our house, that is full as an ant-hill already.
I went round to the bank after breakfast to see Mrs.
Elzey and inquire about him. The square is so
crowded with soldiers and government wagons that
it is not easy to make way through it. It is especially
difficult around the government offices, where the poor,

ragged, starved, and dirty remnants of Lee's heroic
army are gathered day and night. The sidewalk along
there is alive with vermin, and some people say they
have seen lice crawling along on the walls of the
houses. Poor fellows, this is worse than facing
Yankee bullets. These men were, most of them, born
gentlemen, and there could be no more pitiful evidence
of the hardships they have suffered than the lack of
means to free themselves from these disgusting
creatures. Even dirt and rags can be heroic, sometimes.
At the spring in our grove, where the soldiers
come in great numbers to wash their faces, and sometimes,
their clothes, lice have been seen crawling in
the grass, so that we are afraid to walk there. Little
Washington is now, perhaps, the most important military
post in our poor, doomed Confederacy. The
naval and medical departments have been moved here
- what there is left of them. Soon all this will give
place to Yankee barracks, and our dear old Confederate
gray will be seen no more. The men are all
talking about going to Mexico and Brazil; if all emigrate
who say they are going to, we shall have a nation
made up of women, negroes, and Yankees.

I joined a party after dinner in a walk out to the
general camping ground in Cousin Will Pope's woods.
The Irvin Artillery are coming in rapidly; I suppose
they will all be here by the end of the week - or what
is left of them - but their return is even sadder and
amid bitterer tears than their departure, for now "we

weep as they that have no hope." Everybody is cast
down and humiliated, and we are all waiting in suspense
to know what our cruel masters will do with us.
Think of a vulgar plebeian like Andy Johnson, and
that odious Yankee crew at Washington, lording it
over Southern gentlemen! I suppose we shall be subjected
to every indignity that hatred and malice can
heap upon us. Till it comes, "Let us eat, drink and
be merry, for to-morrow we die." Only, we have almost
nothing to eat, and to drink, and still less to be
merry about.

Our whirlwind of a cousin, Robert Ball, has made
his appearance, but is hurrying on to New Orleans
and says he has but one day to spend with us.

The whole world seems to be moving on Washington
now. An average of 2,000 rations are issued
daily, and over 15,000 men are said to have passed
through already, since it became a military post,
though the return of the paroled men has as yet hardly
begun.

April 26, Wednesday. - Gen. Elzey lent his ambulances,
and we had a charming little picnic under the
management of Capt. Hardy. We left town at seven
o'clock, before the sun was too hot, and drove to a
creek ten miles out, where we spent the day in a beautiful
grove, so shady that the sun could not penetrate
at noon-day. Gen. Elzey and all the staff were there.
Our amusements were cards, fishing in the creek,
rambling about through the woods, and sitting in little

circles on the grass, talking about what we are going
to do under the new order of things. Some comical
pictures were drawn of our future occupations, and
we guyed each other a good deal about our prospects.
I am to take in washing, Mett to raise chickens and
peddle them in a cart drawn by Dixie; Capt. Irwin is
to join the minstrels, and Capt. Palfrey to be a dancing
master - but down in the bottom of our hearts we felt
that there is likely to be little occasion for laughter
in the end. The drive home was rather hot and dusty,
and our enjoyment was damped by the sight of the
poor soldiers that we met, trundling along the road;
they looked so weary and ragged and travel-stained.
Many of them, overcome with fatigue, were lying
down to rest on the bare ground by the roadside. I
felt ashamed of myself for riding when they had to
walk. These are the straggling remnants of those
splendid armies that have been for four years a terror
to the North, the glory of the South, and the wonder
of the world. Alas, alas!

April 27, Thursday. - Robert Ball left for New Orleans,
Mary Day for a short visit to Augusta, and
Cora returned from there, where she had gone to bid
farewell to General and Mrs. Fry, who have arranged
to make their future home in Cuba. The Elzeys and
many other visitors called during the evening. We
had a delightful serenade in the night, but Toby kept
up such a barking that we couldn't half get the good
of it. Their songs were all about the sea, so I suppose

the serenaders were naval officers. The navy department
has been ordered away from here - and Washington
would seem a very queer location for a navy
that had any real existence. Capt. Parker sent Lieut.
Peck this morning with a letter to father and seven
great boxes full of papers and instruments belonging
to the department, which he requested father to take
care of. Father had them stored in the cellar, the
only place where he could find a vacant spot, and so
now, about all that is left of the Confederate Navy is
here in our house, and we laugh and tell father, that
he, the staunchest Union man in Georgia, is head of
the Confederate Navy.

April 28, Friday. - Dr. Aylett, one of the lecturers
at Bellevue Hospital when Henry was a student there,
took breakfast with us. He is stone blind, and making
his way to Selma, Ala., attended only by a negro
boy. If the negro should desert, he would be in a
forlorn plight, though he does seem to have a wonderful
faculty for taking care of himself. I have heard
Henry say he used to find his way about in New York
City, with no guide but his stick, as readily as if he had
had eyes.

I was busy all the morning helping to get ready for
a supper that father gave to Gen. Elzey and staff. The
table was beautiful; it shone like a mirror. There
were seats for twenty-two, and everything on it solid
silver, except the cups and saucers and plates, which
were of beautiful old china that had belonged to

Cora's grandmother. But it was all in absurd contrast
to what we had to eat. The cake was all made
of sorghum molasses, and the strawberries were sweetened
with the coarsest kind of brown sugar, but we
were glad to have even that, and it tasted good to us
hungry Rebs. Emily was kept so busy all day cooking
rations for soldiers that she hardly had time for anything
else, and I was so sorry for the poor fellows that
no matter what I happened to have in my hand, if a
soldier came up and looked wistfuly at it, I couldn't
help giving it to him. Some of them, as they talked
to me about the surrender, would break down and cry
like children. I took all the lard and eggs mother
had left out for Emily to cook with and gave to them,
because I could not bear to see them eating heavy old
biscuit made of nothing but flour and water. In this
way a good part of our supper was disposed of before
we sat down to it, but nobody grudged the loss. In
spite of his being such a strong Union man, and his
bitter opposition to secession, father never refuses
anything to the soldiers. I blame the secession politicians
myself, but the cause for which my brothers
risked their lives, the cause for which so many noble
Southerners have bled and died, and for which such
terrible sacrifices have been made, is dear to my heart,
right or wrong. The more misfortunes overwhelm
my poor country, the more I love it; the more the
Yankees triumph, the worse I hate them, wretches!
I would rather be wrong with men like Lee and Davis,

than right with a lot of miserable oppressors like Stanton
and Thad Stevens. The wrong of disrupting the
old Union was nothing to the wrongs that are being
done for its restoration.

We had a delightful evening, in spite of the clouds
gathering about us. The Toombses, Popes, Mary
Wynn, Mr. Saile, and Capt. John Garnett, our Virginia
cousin, were invited to meet the general and
staff. Capt. Garnett is one of the handsomest men I
ever saw, with magnificent black eyes and hair, but
seems to me wanting in vivacity. I reckon it is because
he is in love with a frisky widow, who is leading
him a dance, for the gentlemen all like him, and say
that he has a great deal of dry humor. We had
several sets of the Lancers and Prince Imperial, interspersed
with waltzes and galops, and wound up
with an old-fashioned Virginia reel, Gen. Elzey and I leading
off. The general is too nice for anything. I told
Mrs. Elzey that if she hadn't had first chance at him,
I would fall over head and ears in love with him
myself.

April 29, Saturday. - Visitors all day, in shoals and
swarms. Capt. Irwin brought Judge Crump of Richmond,
to stay at our house. He is an ugly old fellow,
with a big nose, but perfectly delightful in conversation,
and father says he wishes he would stay a month.
Capt. Irwin seems very fond of him, and says there
is no man in Virginia more beloved and respected. He
is Assistant Secretary of the Treasury or something

of the sort, and is wandering about the country with
his poor barren exchequer, trying to protect what is
left of it, for the payment of Confederate soldiers.
He has in charge, also, the assets of some Richmond
banks, of which he is, or was, president, dum Troja
fuit. He says that in Augusta he met twenty-five of
his clerks with ninety-five barrels of papers not worth
a pin all put together, which they had brought out of
Richmond, while things of real value were left a prey
to the enemy.

April 30, Sunday. - We were all standing under the
ash tree by the fountain after breakfast, watching the
antics of a squirrel up in the branches, when Gen.
Elzey and Touch [name by which the general's son,
Arnold, a lad of 14, was known among his friends]
came to tell us that Garnett was wounded in the fight
at Salisbury, N. C. Mr. Saile brought the news from
Augusta, but could give no particulars except that his
wound was not considered dangerous, and that his
galvanized Yanks behaved badly, as anybody might
have known they would. A little later the mail
brought a letter from Gen. Gardiner, his commanding
officer, entirely relieving our fears for his personal
safety. He is a prisoner, but will soon be paroled.
When I came in from church in the afternoon, I found
Burton Harrison, Mr. Davis's private secretary,
among our guests. He is said to be engaged to the
Miss Constance Carey, of whom my old Montgomery
acquaintance, that handsome Ed Carey, used to talk

so much. He came in with Mrs. Davis, who is being
entertained at Dr. Ficklen's. Nobody knows where
the President is, but I hope he is far west of this by
now. All sorts of ridiculous rumors are afloat concerning
him; one, that he passed through town yesterday
hid in a box marked "specie," might better begin
with an h. Others, equally reliable, appoint every
day in the week for his arrival in Washington with a
bodyguard of 1,000 men, but I am sure he has better
sense than to travel in such a conspicuous way. Mr.
Harrison probably knows more about his whereabouts
than anybody else, but of course we ask no questions.
Mrs. Davis herself says that she has no idea where
he is, which is the only wise thing for her to say. The
poor woman is in a deplorable condition - no home,
no money, and her husband a fugitive. She says she
sold her plate in Richmond, and in the stampede from
that place, the money, all but fifty dollars, was left
behind. I am very sorry for her, and wish I could do
something to help her, but we are all reduced to
poverty, and the most we can do is for those of us who
have homes to open our doors to the rest. If secession
were to do over, I expect father's warning voice would
no longer be silenced by jeers, and I would no more
be hooted at as the daughter of a "submissionist."
But I have not much respect for the sort of Union
men that are beginning to talk big now, and hope my
father will never turn against his own people like that
infamous "Committee of Seventeen," in Savannah.

Right or wrong, I believe in standing by your own people,
especially when they are down. *

May 1,
Monday. - Crowds of callers all day. The
Irvin Artillery are back, and it was almost like a reception,
so many of them kept coming in. Capt.
Thomas called again with Capt. Garnett. They staid
a long time, and we enjoyed their visit, except for a
stupid blunder. Capt. Thomas informed us that he
was a widower, with one child, but he looked so boyish
that we thought he was joking and treated the matter
with such levity that we were horribly mortified later,
when Capt. Garnett told us it was true. I told Mett
neither of us could ever hope to be stepmother to that
little boy.

Men were coming in all
day, with busy faces, to see
Mr. Harrison, and one of them brought news of
Johnston's surrender, but Mr. Harrison didn't tell anybody
about it except father, and the rest of us were
left in ignorance till afternoon when Fred came back
with the news from Augusta. While we were at
dinner, a brother of Mrs. Davis came in and called
for Mr. Harrison, and after a hurried interview with
him, Mr. Harrison came back into the dining-room
and said it had been decided that Mrs. Davis would

leave town to-morrow. Delicacy forbade our asking
any questions, but I suppose they were alarmed by
some of the numerous reports that are always flying
about the approach of the Yankees. Mother called
on Mrs. Davis this afternoon, and she really believes
they are on their way here and may arrive at any
moment. She seemed delighted with her reception
here, and, to the honor of our town, it can be truly
said that she has received more attention than would
have been shown her even in the palmiest days of her
prosperity.

The conduct of a Texas regiment in the streets this
afternoon gave us a sample of the chaos and general
demoralization that may be expected to follow the
breaking up of our government. They raised a riot
about their rations, in which they were joined by all
the disorderly elements among both soldiers and citizens.
First they plundered the Commissary Department,
and then turned loose on the quartermaster's
stores. Paper, pens, buttons, tape, cloth - everything
in the building - was seized and strewn about on the
ground. Negroes and children joined the mob and
grabbed what they could of the plunder. Col.
Weems's provost guard refused to interfere, saying
they were too good soldiers to fire on their comrades,
and so the plundering went on unopposed. Nobody
seemed to care much, as we all know the Yankees will
get it in the end, any way, if our men don't. I was
at Miss Maria Randolph's when the disturbance began,

but by keeping to the back streets I avoided the worst
of the row, though I encountered a number of stragglers,
running away with their booty. The soldiers
were very generous with their "confiscated" goods,
giving away paper, pens, tape, &c., to anybody they
happened to meet. One of them poked a handful of
pen staves at me; another, staggering under an armful
of stationery, threw me a ream of paper, saying:
"There, take that and write to your sweetheart on it."
I took no notice of any of them, but hurried on home
as fast as I could, all the way meeting negroes, children,
and men loaded with plunder. When I reached
home I found some of our own servants with their
arms full of thread, paper, and pens, which they
offered to sell me, and one of them gave me several
reams of paper. I carried them to father, and he collected
all the other booty he could find, intending to
return it to headquarters, but he was told that there
is no one to receive it, no place to send it to - in fact,
there seemed to be no longer any headquarters nor
any other semblance of authority. Father saved one
box of bacon for Col. Weems by hauling it away in
his wagon and concealing it in his smokehouse. All
of Johnston's army and the greater portion of Lee's
are still to pass through, and since the rioters have destroyed
so much of the forage and provisions intended
for their use, there will be great difficulty in feeding
them. They did not stop at food, but helped themselves
to all the horses and mules they needed. A band

of them made a raid on Gen. Elzey's camp and took
nine of his mules. They excused themselves by saying
that all government stores will be seized by the
Yankees in a few days, any way, if left alone, and our
own soldiers might as well get the good of them while
they can. This would be true, if there were not so many
others yet to come who ought to have their share.

Our back yard and kitchen have been filled all day,
as usual, with soldiers waiting to have their rations
cooked. One of them, who had a wounded arm, came
into the house to have it dressed, and said that he was
at Salisbury when Garnett was shot and saw him fall.
He told some miraculous stories about the valorous
deeds of "the colonel," and although they were so
exaggerated that I set them down as apocryphal, I
gave him a piece of cake, notwithstanding, to pay him
for telling them.

May 2, Tuesday. - Mr. Harrison left this morning,
with a God-speed from all the family and prayers for
the safety of the honored fugitives committed to his
charge.

The disorders begun by the Texans yesterday were
continued to-day, every fresh band that arrived from
the front falling into the way of their predecessors.
They have been pillaging the ordnance stores at the
dépot, in which they were followed by negroes, boys,
and mean white men. I don't see what people are
thinking about to let ammunition fall into the hands
of the negroes, but everybody is demoralized and reckless

and nobody seems to care about anything any
more. A number of paroled men came into our grove
where they sat under the trees to empty the cartridges
they had seized. Confederate money is of no more
use now than so much waste paper, but by filling their
canteens with powder they can trade it off along the
road for provisions. They scattered lead and cartridges
all over the ground. Marshall went out after
they left and picked up enough to last him for years.
The balls do not fit his gun, but he can remold them
and draw the powder out of the cartridges to shoot
with. I am uneasy at having so much explosive material
in the house, especially when I consider the
careless manner in which we have to live. There is
so much company and so much to do that even the
servants hardly have time to eat. I never lived in
such excitement and confusion in my life. Thousands
of people pass through Washington every day, and
our house is like a free hotel; father welcomes everybody
as long as there is a square foot of vacant space
under his roof. Meeting all these pleasant people is
the one compensation of this dismal time, and I don't
know how I shall exist when they have all gone their
ways, and we settle down in the mournful quiet of subjugation.
Besides the old friends that are turning up
every day, there is a continual stream of new faces
crossing my path, and I make some pleasant acquaintance
or form some new friendship every day. The
sad part of it is that the most of them I will probably

never meet again, and if I should, where, and how?
What will they be? What will I be? These are
portentous questions in such a time as this.

We had a larger company to dinner to-day than
usual, but no one that specially interested me. In
the afternoon came a poor soldier from Abbeville, with
a message from Garnett that he was there, waiting
for father to send the carriage to bring him home.
He sat on the soft grass before the door, and we fed
him on sorghum cake and milk, the only things we
had to offer. I am glad the cows have not been emancipated,
for the soldiers always beg for milk; I never
saw one that was not eager for it at any time. After
the soldier, Ed Napier came in, who was a captain in
Garnett's battalion and was taken prisoner with him.
He says that Garnett covered himself with glory; even
the Yankees spoke of his gallantry and admired him.

It seems as if all the people I ever heard of, or never
heard of, either, for that matter, are passing through
Washington. Some of our friends pass on without
stopping to see us because they say they are too ragged
and dirty to show themselves. Poor fellows! if they
only knew how honorable rags and dirt are now, in
our eyes, when endured in the service of their country,
they would not be ashamed of them. The son of the
richest man in New Orleans trudged through the other
day, with no coat to his back, no shoes on his feet.
The town is full of celebrities, and many poor fugitives,
whose necks are in danger, meet here to concert

plans for escape, and I put it in my prayers every
night that they may be successful. Gen. Wigfall
started for the West some days ago, but his mules
were stolen, and he had to return. He is frantic, they
say, with rage and disappointment. Gen. Toombs
left to-night, but old Governor Brown, it is said, has
determined not to desert his post. I am glad he has
done something to deserve respect, and hope he may
get off yet, as soon as the Yankees appoint a military
governor. Clement Clay is believed to be well on his
way to the Trans-Mississippi, the Land of Promise
now, or rather the City of Refuge from which it is
hoped a door of escape may be found to Mexico or
Cuba. The most terrible part of the war is now to
come, the "Bloody Assizes." "Kirke's Lambs," in
the shape of Yankee troopers, are closing in upon us;
our own disbanded armies, ragged, starving, hopeless,
reckless, are roaming about without order or leaders,
making their way to their far-off homes as best they
can. The props that held society up are broken.
Everything is in a state of disorganization and tumult.
We have no currency, no law save the primitive code
that might makes right. We are in a transition state
from war to subjugation, and it is far worse than
was the transition from peace to war. The suspense
and anxiety in which we live are terrible.

May 3, Wednesday. - Fred started for Abbeville in
the carriage to bring Garnett home. We hear now
that the Yankees are in Abbeville, and, if so, I am

afraid they will take the horses away and then I don't
know how Garnett will get home. They are father's
carriage horses, and we would be in a sad plight with
no way to ride. Our cavalry are playing havoc with
stock all through the country. The Texans are especially
noted in this respect. They have so far to go
that the temptation is greater in their case. There is
hardly a planter in Wilkes County who has not lost
one or more of his working animals since they began
to pass through. They seize horses, even when they
are already well-mounted, and trade them off. They
broke into Mr. Ben Bowdre's stable and took possession
of his carriage horses, and helped themselves to
two from the buggies of quiet citizens on the square.
Almost everybody I know has had horses stolen or
violently taken from him. I was walking with Dr.
Sale in the street yesterday evening, and a soldier
passed us leading a mule, while the rightful owner
followed after, wasting breath in useless remonstrances.
As they passed us, the soldier called out:
"A man that's going to Texas must have a mule to
ride, don't you think so, lady?" I made no answer,
Dr. Sale gave a doubtful assent. It is astonishing
what a demoralizing influence association with horses
seems to exercise over the human race. Put a man
on horseback and his next idea is to play the bully
or to steal something. We had an instance of ill-behavior
at our house last night - the first and only
one that has occurred among the hundreds - thousands

I might almost say, that have stopped at our
door. Our back yard and kitchen were filled all day
with parties of soldiers coming to get their rations
cooked, or to ask for something to eat. Mother kept
two servants hard at work, cooking for them. While
we were at supper, a squad of a dozen or more cavalry-men
rode up and asked for a meal. Every seat at the
table was filled, and some of the family waiting because
there was no room for us, so mother told
mammy to set a table for them on the front piazza,
and serve them with such as we had ourselves - which
was nothing to brag on, I must own. They were so
incensed at not being invited into the house that
mammy says they cursed her and said Judge Andrews
was a d - d old aristocrat, and deserved to have his
house burned down. I suppose they were drunk, or
stragglers from some of the conscript regiments enrolled
after the flower of our armies had been decimated
in the great battles.

We had a good laugh on Capt. Irwin this morning.
He is counting on the sale of his horse for money to
carry him home, and seems to imagine that every man
in a cavalry uniform is a horse thief bent on capturing
his little nag. A Capt. Morton, of the cavalry, called
here after breakfast, with a letter of introduction from
friends, and our dear little captain immediately ran out
bare-headed, to stand guard over his charger. I don't
know which laughed most when the situation was explained.
Capt. Palfrey and Capt. Swett. of Gen. Elzey's

staff, called later to bid us good-by. They have
money, but each was provided with a card of buttons
with which they count on buying a meal or two
on the way. Cousin Liza added to their store a paper
pins and Cora another card of buttons. We laughed
very much at this new kind of currency.

About noon the town was thrown into the wildest
excitement by the arrival of President Davis. He is
traveling with a large escort of cavalry, a very imprudent
thing for a men in his position to do, especially
now that Johnston has surrendered, and the fact that
they are all going in the same direction to their homes
is the only thing that keeps them together. He rode
into town ahead of his escort, and as he was passing by
the bank, where the Elzey's board, the general and
several other gentlemen were sitting on the front porch,
and the instant they recognized him they took off their
hats and received him every mark of respect due
the president of a brave people. When he reined in
his horse, all the staff who were present advanced
to hold the reins and assist him to dismount, while Dr.
and Mrs. Robertson hastened to offer the hospitality of
their home. About forty of his immediate personal
friends and attendants were with him, and they were
all half-starved, having tasted nothing for twenty-four
hours. Capt. Irwin came running home in great haste
to ask mother to send them something to eat, as it was
reported the Yankees were approaching the town from
two opposite directions closing in upon the President,

and it was necessary to hurry him off at once. There
was not so much as a crust of bread in our house,
everything available having been given to soldiers. There
was some bread in the kitchen that had just been baked
for a party of soldiers, but they were willing to wait, and
I begged some milk from Aunt Sallie, and by adding
to these our own dinner as soon as Emily could
finish cooking it, we contrived to get together a very
respectable lunch. We had just sent it off when the
president's escort came in, followed by couriers who
brought the comforting assurance that it was a false
alarm about the enemy being so near. By this time
the president's arrival had become generally known,
and people began flocking to see him; but he went to
bed almost as soon as he got into the house, and Mrs.
Elzey would not let him be waked. One of his friends,
Col. Thorburne, came to our house and went right to
bed and slept fourteen hours on a stretch. The party
are all worn out and half-dead for sleep. They travel
mostly at night, and have been in the saddle for three
nights in succession. Mrs. Elzey says that Mr. Davis
does not seem to have been aware of the real danger
of his situation until he came to Washington, where
some of his friends gave him a serious talk, and advised
him to travel with more secrecy and dispatch
than he has been using.

Mr. Reagan and Mr. Mallory are also in town, and
Gen. Toombs has returned having encountered danger
ahead, I fear. Judge Crump is back too, with his Confederate

treasury, containing, it is said, three hundred
thousand dollars in specie. He is staying at our house,
but the treasure is thought to be stored in the vault at
the bank. It will hardly be necessary for him to leave
the country, but his friends advise him to keep in the
shade for a time. If the Yankees once get scent of
money, they will be sure to ferret it out. They have
already begun their reign of terror in Richmond, by
arresting many of the prominent citizens. Judge
Crump is in a state of distraction about his poor little
wandering exchequer, which seems to stand an even
chance between the Scylla of our own hungry cavalry
and the Charybdis of Yankee cupidity. I wish it could
all be divided among the men whose necks are in danger,
to assist them in getting out of the country, but I
don't suppose one of them would touch it. Anything
would be preferable to letting the Yankees get it.

Among the stream of travelers pouring through
Washington, my old friend, Dr. Cromwell, has turned
up, and is going to spend several days with us. Capt.
Napier, Col. Walter Weems, Capt. Shaler Smith, and
Mr. Hallam ate supper with us, but we had no sleeping
room to offer them except the grass under the trees in
the grove. Capt. Smith and Mr. Hallam are Kentuckians,
and bound for that illusive land of hope, the
Trans-Mississippi. They still believe the battle of
Southern independence will be fought out there and
won. If faith as a grain of mustard seed can move
mountains, what ought not faith like this to accomplish!

Mr. Hallam is a high-spirited young fellow, and reminds
me of the way we all used to talk and feel at
the beginning of the war. I believe he thinks he could
fight the whole Yankee nation now, single-handed, and
whip them, too. He is hardly more than a boy, and
only a second lieutenant, yet, as he gravely informed
me, is now the chief ordnance officer of the Confederate
army. He was taken prisoner and made his
escape without being paroled, and since the surrender
of Lee's and Johnston's armies, he really is, it seems,
the ranking ordnance officer in the poor little remnant
that is still fixing its hope on the Trans-Mississippi.
They spent the night in the grove, where they could
watch their horses. It was dreadful that we had not
even stable room to offer them, but every place in this
establishment that can accommodate man or beast was
already occupied.

May 4, Thursday. - I am in such a state of excitement
that I can do nothing but spend my time, like the
Athenians of old, in either hearing or telling some new
thing. I sat under the cedar trees by the street gate
nearly all the morning, with Metta and Cousin Liza,
watching the stream of human life flow by, and keeping
guard over the horses of some soldier friends that had
left them grazing on the lawn. Father and Cora went
to call on the President, and in spite of his prejudice
against everybody and everything connected with secession,
father says his manner was so calm and dignified
that he could not help admiring the man. Crowds

of people flocked to see him, and nearly all were melted
to tears. Gen. Elzey pretended to have dust in his
eyes and Mrs. Elzey blubbered outright, exclaiming all
the while, in her impulsive way: "Oh, I am such a fool
to be crying, but I can't help it!" When she was
telling me about it afterwards, she said she could not
stay in the room with him yesterday evening, because
she couldn't help crying, and she was ashamed for the
people who called to see her looking so ugly, with her
eyes and nose red. She says that at night, after the
crowd left, there was a private meeting in his room,
where Reagan and Mallory and other high officials
were present, and again early in the morning there
were other confabulations before they all scattered
and went their ways - and this, I suppose, is the end
of the Confederacy. Then she made me laugh by telling
some ludicrous things that happened while the
crowd was calling.... It is strange how closely
interwoven tragedy and comedy are in life.

The people of the village sent so many good things
for the President to eat, that an ogre couldn't have
devoured them all, and he left many little delicacies,
besides giving away a number of his personal effects,
to people who had been kind to him. He requested
that one package be sent to mother, which, if it ever
comes, must be kept as an heirloom in the family. I
don't suppose he knows what strong Unionists father
and mother have always been, but for all that I am
sure they would be as ready to help him now, if they

could, as the hottest rebel among us. I was not
ashamed of father's being a Union man when his was
the down-trodden, persecuted party; but now, when
our country is down-trodden, the Union means something
very different from what it did four years ago.
It is a great grief and mortification to me that he sticks
to that wicked old tyranny still, but he is a Southerner
and a gentleman, in spite of his politics, and at any
rate nobody can accuse him of self-interest, for he has
sacrificed as much in the war as any other private
citizen I know, except those whose children have been
killed. His sons, all but little Marshall, have been in
the army since the very first gun - in fact, Garnett was
the first man to volunteer from the county, and it is
through the mercy of God and not of his beloved
Union that they have come back alive. Then, he has
lost not only his negroes, like everybody else, but his
land, too.

The President left town about ten o'clock, with a
single companion, his unruly cavalry escort having
gone on before. He travels sometimes with them,
sometimes before, sometimes behind, never permitting
his precise location to be known. Generals Bragg and
Breckinridge are in the village, with a host of minor
celebrities. Gen. Breckinridge is called the handsomest
man in the Confederate army, and Bragg might
well be called the ugliest. I saw him at Mrs. Vickers's,
where he is staying, and he looks like an old porcupine.
I never was a special admirer of his, though it would

be a good thing if some of his stringent views about
discipline could be put into effect just now - if discipline
were possible among men without a leader,
without a country, without a hope. The army is
practically disbanded, and citizens, as well as soldiers,
thoroughly demoralized. It has gotten to be pretty
much a game of grab with us all; every man for himself
and the Devil (or the Yankees, which amounts to
the same thing) take the hindmost. Nearly all government
teams have been seized and driven out of
town by irresponsibile parties - indeed, there seems to
be nobody responsible for anything any longer. Gen.
Elzey's two ambulances were taken last night, so that
Capt. Palfrey and Capt. Swett are left in the lurch,
and will have to make their way home by boat and
rail, or afoot, as best they can.

Large numbers of cavalry passed through town during
the day. A solid, unbroken stream of them poured
past our street gate for two hours, many of them leading
extra horses. They raised such clouds of dust
that it looked as if a yellow fog had settled over our
grove. Duke's division threatened to plunder the
treasury, so that Gen. Breckinridge had to open it and
pay them a small part of their stipend in specie.
Others put in a claim too, and some deserving men got
a few dollars. Capt. Smith and Mr. Hallam called in
the afternoon, and the latter showed me ninety dollars
in gold, which is all that he has received for four years
of service. I don't see what better could be done with

the money than to pay it all out to the soldiers of the
Confederacy before the Yankees gobble it up.

While we were in the parlor with these and other
visitors, the carriage drove up with Fred and Garnett
and Garnett's "galvanized" attendant, Gobin. As
soon as I heard the sound of wheels coming up the
avenue, I ran to one of the front windows, and when
I recognized our carriage, Metta, Cora, and I tore helter-skelter
out of the house to meet them. Garnett
looks very thin and pale. The saber cuts on his head
are nearly healed, but the wound in his shoulder is
still very painful. His fingers are partially paralyzed
from it, but I hope not permanently. Gobin seems
attached to him and dresses his wounds carefully. He
is an Irish Yankee, deserted, and came across the lines
to keep from fighting, but was thrown into prison and
only got out by enlisting in a "galvanized" regiment.
I wonder how many of the patriots in the Union army
have the same unsavory record! He is an inconvenient
person to have about the house, anyway,
for he is no better than a servant, and yet we can't
put him with the negroes. Garnett says the report
about his galvanized troops having behaved badly
in the battle was a slander. They fought splendidly,
he says, and were devoted to their officers. If the
war had lasted longer, he thinks he could have made
a fine regiment out of them, but somehow I can't feel
anything but contempt for that sort of men, nor put
any faith in them.

Aunt Sallie invited Mr. Habersham Adams, her
pastor, and his wife, to dinner, and Cousin Liza, Mary
Day, Cora, Metta, and me, to help them eat it. She
had such a dinner as good old Methodist ladies know
how to get up for their preachers, though where all the
good things came from, Heaven only knows. She
must have been hoarding them for months. We ate
as only hungry Rebs can, that have been half-starved
for weeks, and expect to starve the rest of our days.
We have no kind of meat in our house but ham and
bacon, and have to eat hominy instead of rice, at
dinner. Sometimes we get a few vegetables out of
the garden, but everything has been so stripped to feed
the soldiers, that we never have enough to spread a
respectable meal before the large number of guests,
expected and unexpected, who sit down to our table
every day. In spite of all we can do, there is a look
of scantiness about the table that makes people afraid
to eat as much as they want - and the dreadful things
we have to give them, at that! Cornfield peas have
been our staple diet for the last ten days. Mother has
them cooked in every variety of style she ever heard of,
but they are cornfield peas still. All this would have
been horribly mortifying a year or two ago, but everybody
knows how it is now, and I am glad to have even
cornfield peas to share with the soldiers. Three cavalry
officers ate dinner at the house while we were at Aunt
Sallie's. Mother says they were evidently gentlemen,
but they were so ragged and dirty that she thought the

poor fellows did not like to give their names. They
didn't introduce themselves, and she didn't ask who they
were. Poor Henry is in the same plight, somewhere,
I reckon. The cavalry are not popular about here just
now; everybody is crying out against them, even their
own officers. On their way from Abbeville, Fred and
Garnett met a messenger with a flag of truce, which
had been sent out by some (pretended) cavalrymen
who had plundered a government specie wagon at the
Savannah River and professed to be hunting for Yankees
to whom they might surrender. Garnett says he
does not think there are any Yanks within forty miles
of Abbeville, though as the "grape vine" is our only
telegraph, we know nothing with certainty. Boys and
negroes and sportsmen are taking advantage of the
ammunition scattered broadcast by the pillaging of the
ordnance stores, to indulge in fireworks of every description,
and there is so much shooting going on all
around town that we wouldn't know it if a battle were
being fought. Capt. Irwin came near being killed this
afternoon by a stray minié ball shot by some careless
person. The R.R. dépot is in danger of being blown
up by the quantities of gunpowder scattered about
there, mixed up with percussion caps. Fred says that
when he came up from Augusta the other day, the railroad
between here and Barnett was strewn with loose
cartridges and empty canteens that the soldiers had
thrown out of the car windows.

mess of these pages. I can hardly ever write
fifteen minutes at a time without interruption. Sometimes
I break off in the middle of a sentence and do
not return to it for hours, and so I am apt to get everything
into a jumble. And the worst of it is, we are
living in such a state of hurry and excitement that half
the time I don't know whether I am telling the truth
or not. Mother says that she will have to turn the
library into a bedroom if we continue to have so much
company, and then I shall have no quiet place to go to,
and still less time to myself. It seems that the more
I have to say, the less time I have to say it in. From
breakfast till midnight I am engaged nearly all the
time with company, so that the history of each day
has to be written mostly in the spare moments I can
steal before breakfast on the next, and sometimes I
can only scratch down a few lines to be written out at
length whenever I can find the time. I have been keeping
this diary so long and through so many difficulties
and interruptions that it would be like losing an
old friend if I were to discontinue it. I can tell it what
I can say to no one else, not even to Metta....
But after all, I enjoy the rush and excitement
famously. Mett says that she don't enjoy a man's
society, no matter how nice he is, till she knows him
well, but I confess that I like change and variety. A
man that I know nothing about - provided, of course,
he is a gentleman - is a great deal more interesting to
me than the people I see every day, just because there

is something to find out; people get to be commonplace
when you know them too well.

May 5, Friday. - It has come at last - what we have
been dreading and expecting so long - what has caused
so many panics and false alarms - but it is no false
alarm this time; the Yankees are actually in Washington.
Before we were out of bed a courier came in
with news that Kirke - name of ill omen - was only
seven miles from town, plundering and devastating the
country. Father hid the silver and what little coin he
had in the house, but no other precautions were taken.
They have cried "wolf" so often that we didn't pay
much attention to it, and besides, what could we do,
anyway? After dinner we all went to our rooms as
usual, and I sat down to write. Presently some one
knocked at my door and said: "The Yankees have
come, and are camped in Will Pope's grove." I paid
no attention and went on quietly with my writing.
Later, I dressed and went down to the library, where
Dr. Cromwell was waiting for me, and asked me to go
with him to call on Annie Pope. We found the streets
deserted; not a soldier, not a straggler did we see. The
silence of death reigned where a few hours ago all was
stir and bustle - and it is the death of our liberty.
After the excitement of the last few days, the stillness
was painful, oppressive. I thought of Chateaubriand's
famous passage: "Lorsque dans le silence de l'abjection"
&c. News of the odious arrival seems to have
spread like a secret pestilence through the country, and

travelers avoid the tainted spot. I suppose the returning
soldiers flank us, for I have seen none on the
streets to-day, and none have called at our house. The
troops that are here came from Athens. There are
about sixty-five white men, and fifteen negroes, under
the command of a Major Wilcox. They say that they
come for peace, to protect us from our own lawless
cavalry - to protect us, indeed! with their negro troops,
runaways from our own plantations! I would rather
be skinned and eaten by wild beasts than beholden to
them for such protection. As they were marching
through town, a big buck negro leading a raw-boned
jade is said to have made a conspicuous figure in the
procession. Respectable people were shut up in their
houses, but the little street urchins immediately began
to sing, when they saw the big black Sancho and his
Rosinante:

"Yankee Doodle went to town and stole a little pony;
He stuck a feather in his crown and called him Macaroni."

They followed the Yanks nearly to their camping
ground at the Mineral Spring, singing and jeering at
the negroes, and strange to say, the Yankees did not
offer to molest them. I have not laid eyes on one of
the creatures myself, and they say they do not intend
to come into the town unless to put down disturbances
- the sweet, peaceful lambs! They never sacked Columbia;
they never burnt Atlanta; they never left a
black trail of ruin and desolation through the whole

length of our dear old Georgia! No, not they! I
wonder how long this sugar and honey policy is to
continue. They deceive no one with their Puritanical
hypocrisy, bringing our own runaway negroes here
to protect us. Next thing they will have a negro
garrison in the town for our benefit. Their odious
old flag has not yet been raised in the village, and I
pray God they will have the grace to spare us that
insult, at least until Johnston's army has all passed
through. The soldiers will soon return to their old
route of travel, and there is no telling what our boys
might be tempted to do at the sight of that emblem of
tyranny on the old courthouse steeple, where once
floated the "lone star banner" that Cora and I made
with our own hands - the first rebel flag that was ever
raised in Washington. Henry brought us the cloth,
and we made it on the sly in Cora's room at night,
hustling it under the bed, if a footstep came near, for
fear father or mother might catch us and put a stop to
our work. It would break my heart to see the emblem
of our slavery floating in its place. Our old liberty
pole is gone. Some of the Irvin Artillery went one
night before the Yankees came, and cut it down and
carried it off. It was a sad night's work, but there
was no other way to save it from desecration.

Gen. Elzey, Col. Weems, and several other leading
citizens went to the Yankee camp soon after they
arrived to see about making arrangements for feeding
the paroled men who are still to pass through, and to

settle other matters of public interest. It was reported
that father went with them to surrender the town, but
it was a slander; he has not been near them. Garnett's
galvanized Yank immediately fraternized with them,
and Garnett is going to send him away to-morrow.
Gen. Elzey looks wretched, and we all feel miserable
enough.

When Capt. Irwin came home to supper, he told me
that he had been trying to draw forage from the
Confederate stores for his horse, but could not get any
because it was all to be turned over to the new masters.
He was so angry that he forgot himself and let out a
"cuss word" before he thought, right in my presence.
And I wouldn't let him apologize. I told him I was
glad he did it, because I couldn't swear myself and it
was a relief to my feelings to hear somebody else do it.
While we were talking, old Toby's bark announced a
visitor, who turned out to be Capt. Hudson. Metta
brought out her guitar, and she and Garnett tried to
sing a little, but most of the evening was spent in quiet
conversation. It seemed hard to realize, as we sat
there talking peacefully in the soft moonlight, surrounded
by the dear old Confederate uniforms, that
the enemy is actually in our midst. But I realized it
only too fully when I heard the wearers of the uniforms
talk. They do not whine over their altered
fortunes and ruined prospects, but our poor ruined
country, the slavery and degradation to which it is
reduced - they grow pathetic over that. We have a

charming circle of friends round us now. Judge
Crump, especially, is one of the most entertaining men
I ever knew. He has traveled a great deal and I was
very much interested in his account of Dicken's wife,
whom he knows well. He says that she is altogether
the most unattractive woman he ever met. She has a
yellowish, cat-like eye, a muddy complexion, dull,
coarse hair of an undecided color, and a very awkward
person. On top of it all she is, he says, one of the most
intolerably stupid women he ever met. He has had to
entertain her for hours at a time and could never get
an idea out of her nor one into her. Think of such
a wife for Dickens!

Porter Alexander has got home and brings discouraging
reports of the state of feeling at the North.
After he was paroled he went to see the Brazilian
minister at Washington to learn what the chances were
of getting into the Brazilian army. He says he met
with very little encouragement and had to hurry away
from Washington because, since Lincoln's assassination
the feeling against Southerners has grown so
bitter that he didn't think it safe to stay there. He
says the generality of the people at the North were
disposed to receive the Confederate officers kindly, but
since the assassination the whole country is embittered
against us - very unjustly, too, for they have no right
to lay upon innocent people the crazy deed of a madman.

his party of appropriating all the money in the Confederate
Treasury to their own use, but thank Heaven,
everybody in Washington can refute that slander. The
treasury was plundered here, in our midst, and I saw
some of the gold, with my own eyes, in the hands of
Confederate soldiers - right where it ought to be.

The talk now is, judging from the ease with which
Breckinridge was allowed to slip through this morning,
that the military authorities are conniving at the escape
of Mr. Davis. Breckinridge, when he found that the
Philistines were about to be upon him, used a carefully
planned stratagem of war to deceive Wilcoxson, by
which he imagined that he gained time to destroy his
papers and give him the slip, while in reality, they say,
the Yanks were making no effort to detain him, and
he might have gone openly with his papers unmolested.
The general belief is that Grant and the military men,
even Sherman, are not anxious for the ugly job of
hanging such a man as our president, and are quite
willing to let him give them the slip, and get out of the
country if he can. The military men, who do the
hard and cruel things in war, seem to be more merciful
in peace than the politicians who stay at home and do
the talking.

CHAPTER V

IN THE DUST AND ASHES OF DEFEAT

May 6 - June 1, 1865

EXPLANATORY NOTE. - The
circumstances under which
this part of the diary were written now belong to the
world's history, and need no explanation here. The bitterness
that pervades its pages may seem regrettable to
those who have never passed through the like experiences,
but if the reader will "uncentury" himself for a moment
and try to realize the position of the old slaveholders, a
proud and masterful race, on seeing bands of their former
slaves marching in triumph through their streets, he may
perhaps understand our feelings sufficiently to admit that
they were, to say the least, not unnatural.

And let me here repeat what I have tried to make clear
from the beginning, that this book is not offered to the
public as an exposition of the present attitude of the
writer or her people, nor as a calm and impartial history
of the time with which it deals. It is rather to be compared
to one of those fossil relics gathered by the geologist
from the wrecks of former generations; a simple footprint,
perhaps, or a vestige of a bone, which yet, imperfect
and of small account in itself, conveys to the practiced
eye a clearer knowledge of the world to which it
belonged than volumes of learned research.

The incident about the flag with which the chapter opens,
and other similar ones related further on, may perhaps
give pain to some brave men who fought with honor

under it. For this I am sorry, but the truth is the truth,
and if the flag of our country has sometimes been dishonored
in the hands of unworthy men, there is all the
more reason why the sons of those who fought honorably
and conscientiously on both sides should unite in closer
fellowship to wipe out the stains put on it by fratricidal
hate, and see that the light of its stars shall never again
be dimmed by any act that the heart of a true American
cannot be proud of.

May 6, Saturday. - The mournful silence of yesterday
has been succeeded by noise and confusion passing
anything we have yet experienced. Reënforcements
have joined Wilcox, and large numbers of Stoneman's
and Wilson's cavalry are passing through on their way
to Augusta. Confederate soldiers, too, are beginning
to come by this route again, so Washington is now a
thoroughfare for both armies. Our troops do not come
in such numbers as formerly, still there have been a
great many on the streets to-day. About noon, two
brigades of our cavalry passed going west, and at the
same time a body of Yankees went by going east.
There were several companies of negroes among them,
and their hateful old striped rag was floating in triumph
over their heads. Cousin Liza turned her back
on it, Cora shook her fist at it, and I was so enraged
that I said I wished the wind would tear it to flinders
and roll it in the dirt till it was black all over, as the
colors of such a crew ought to be. Then father took
me by the shoulder and said that if I didn't change my

way of talking about the flag of my country he would
send me to my room and keep me there a week. We
had never known anything but peace and security and
protection under that flag, he said, as long as we
remained true to it. I wanted to ask him what sort of
peace and protection the people along Sherman's line
of march had found under it, but I didn't dare. Father
don't often say much, but when he does flare up like
that, we all know we have got to hold our tongues or
get out of the way. It made me think of that night
when Georgia seceded. What would father have done
if he had known that that secession flag was made in
his house? It pinches my conscience, sometimes, when
I think about it. What a dreadful thing it is for a
household to be so divided in politics as we are! Father
sticks to the Union through thick and thin, and mother
sticks to father, though I believe she is more than half
a rebel at heart, on account of the boys. Fred and
Garnett are good Confederates, but too considerate of
father to say much, while all the rest of us are red-hot
Rebs. Garnett is the coolest head in the family,
and Henry the hottest. I used to sympathize with
father myself, in the beginning, for it did seem a pity
to break up a great nation about a parcel of African
savages, if we had known any other way to protect our
rights; but now, since the Yankees have treated us so
abominably, burning and plundering our country and
bringing a gang of negro soldiers here to insult us, I
don't see how anybody can tolerate the sight of their

odious old flag again. To do father justice, our house
is so far from the street that he couldn't see the plunder
with which the wretches, both black and white, were
loaded, but Cousin Mary Cooper, who lives right on
the street, opposite our gate, told us that she saw one
white man with a silver cake basket tied to the pommel
of his saddle, and nearly all of them had stolen articles
dangling from the front of their saddles, or slung on
in bags behind. And yet, they blame us for not respecting
their flag, when we see it again for the first
time in four years, floating over scenes like this!

A large body of the brigands are camped back of
Aunty's meadow, and have actually thrown the dear
old lady, who was never known to speak a cross word
to anybody, into a rage, by their insolence. Capt.
Hudson had almost to kick one of them out of the
house before he could get him to move, and the rascal
cried out, as he went down the steps: "I thought you
Rebs were all subjugated now, and I could go where I
pleased." Another taunted her by saying: "You
have got plenty of slaves to wait on you now, but you
won't have them long." They tried to buy provisions
of her, but she told them that everything she had to
spare was for our own soldiers, and would not let them
have a mouthful. Mr. Hull [her son-in-law] had to
ask for a guard from the commanding officer to protect
the family. They have their patrols all over the
town, and I can hear their insolent songs and laughter
whenever I stop talking long enough to listen. Our

house is so far back from the street that we suffer
comparatively little. Two men in blue came up and
asked for supper while we were sitting on the piazza
after tea, but nobody took any notice of them. Mother
had been so busy all day getting up extra meals for
our own men, and was so utterly fagged out that she
did not even look up to see who they were. We didn't
tell her, for fear father might hear and want us to give
them something, and they went away. Gen. Yorke is
with us now, and a body of his men are camped in the
grove. He is a rough old fellow, but has a brave
record, and wears an empty sleeve. They say he was
the richest man in Louisiana "before the deluge" -
owned 30,000 acres of land and 900 negroes, besides
plantations in Texas - and now, he hasn't money
enough to pay his way home. He is very fond of
cigarettes, and I keep both him and Capt. Hudson
supplied with them. The captain taught me how to roll
them, and I have become so skilful that I can make
them like we used to knit socks, without looking at
what I am doing.

Gen. Elzey called after tea, and I failed to recognize
him at first, because he had on a white jacket, and there
is such a strange mixture of Yanks and Rebs in town
that I am suspicious of every man who doesn't wear a
gray coat. The moon was shining in my eyes and
blinded me as I met the general at the head of the
steps, and I kept a sour face, intended for a possible
Yankee intruder, till he caught my hand and spoke;

then we both laughed. Our laughter, however, was
short-lived; we spent a miserable evening in the beautiful
moonlight that we knew was shining on the ruin
of our country. Capt. Irwin made heroic efforts to
keep up his spirits and cheer the rest of us, but even
he failed. Gen. Yorke, too, did his best to laugh at
our miserable little jokes, and told some good stories of
his own, but they fell flat, like the captain's. Judge
Crump tried to talk of literature and art, but conversation
flagged and always returned to the same miserable
theme. Gen. Elzey said he wished that he had been
killed in battle. He says that this is the most miserable
day of his life, and he looked it. It is very hard on
the West Point men, for they don't know anything but
soldiering, and the army is closed to them: they have
no career before them.

There is a brigade of Kentucky cavalry camped out
in Mr. Wiley's grove, and some fear is felt of a collision
between them and the Yankees. Some of them
have already engaged in fist fights on their own account.
I wish they would get into a general row, for
I believe the Kentuckians would whip them. I am
just exasperated enough to be reckless as to consequences.
Think of a lot of negroes being brought here
to play the master over us!

I was walking on the street this afternoon with Mr.
Dodd and a Lieut. Sale, from Ark., when we met three
gorgeous Yankee officers, flaunting their smart new
uniforms in the faces of our poor, shabby Rebs, but I

would not even look their way till they had passed and
couldn't see me. Oh, how I do love the dear old Confederate
gray! My heart sickens to think that soon I
shall have seen the last of it. The Confederate officers
who have been stationed here are leaving, as fast as
they can find the means, for their homes, or for the
Trans-Mississippi, where some of them still base their
hopes. Of those that remain, some have already laid
aside their uniforms and their military titles. They
say they are not going to wait to be deprived of them
at the command of a Yankee.

Dr. Cromwell left this morning for his home in
Columbus. He has a horse to ride, but not a cent of
money to buy provisions. Cousin Liza gave him letters
to some friends of hers that live along his route,
requesting them to entertain him. He and Capt. Irwin
have traced out a relationship, both being lineal descendants
of the famous old Lord Protector. How it
would make the old Puritan snort, if he could rise out
of his grave and behold two of his descendants stanch
members of the Episcopal Church, and rollicking cavaliers
both, fighting for the South against the Roundheads
of the North! Dr. Cromwell says that his father
bears a striking likeness to the portrait of old Noll,
barring the famous wart on his nose. He has relations
in Georgia who go by the name of Crowell. Prudence
led them to drop the m while making the voyage
to America, and they have never taken it back into
their name.

While we were at dinner Mrs. Combs [companion
to Aunt Sallie] came rushing in to say that there was
a man in the grove trying to steal one of father's carriage
horses. We had seen three horsemen ride to
the spring, and the most natural thing to expect was
that when they went away, some of our own horses
would be missing. The gentlemen all grabbed their
pistols and went out to meet the supposed marauders,
while we ladies left our soup to get cold and ranged
ourselves on the piazza to witness the combat. But,
oh, most lame and impotent conclusion! not a shot was
fired. The three cavalrymen were sleeping quietly in
the shade, and the horse-thief turned out to be nobody
but 'Ginny Dick * catching the pony for
father.

May 7,
Sunday. - I went to the Baptist church and
heard a good sermon from Mr. Tupper on the text:
"For now we live by faith, and not by sight." There
was not a word that could give the Yankees a handle
against us, yet much that we poor rebels could draw
comfort from. The congregation was very small, and
I am told the same was the case at all the other
churches, people not caring to have their devotions disturbed
by the sight of the "abomination of desolation"
in their holy places.

will almost suffocate one. When the first batch
of Yankees entered Washington, one of them was
heard to say: "We have been hunting for this little
mudhole the last six months." No wonder they didn't
succeed; it is anything but a mudhole now.

Fred has just returned from Greensborough [Ga.],
where he went to look after some horses and wagons
of Brother Troup's department, but both had been
seized by our soldiers. I am glad they got them instead
of the Yanks. It is a case of cheating the devil.
He says the Yankees are plundering right and left
around Athens. They ran a train off the track on
the Athens Branch, and robbed the passengers. They
have not given any trouble in Washington to-day, as
the greater part of the cavalry that came to town on
Saturday have passed on, and the garrison, or provost
guard, or whatever the odious thing is called, are
probably afraid to be too obstreperous while so many
Confederate troops are about. They have taken up
their quarters in the courthouse now, but have not yet
raised their old flaring rag on the spot where our own
brave boys placed the first rebel flag, that my own
hands helped to make. I wish our troops would get
into a fracas with them and thrash them out of town.
Since they have set a price on the head of our president,
"immortal hate and study of revenge" have
taken possession of my heart, and it don't make me
love them or their detestable old flag any better because
I have to keep my feelings pent up. Father won't

let me say anything against the old flag in his presence,
but he can't keep me from thinking and writing what
I please. I believe I would burst sometimes, if I didn't
have this safety-valve. He may talk about the way
Union men were suppressed when they tried to oppose
secession, but now, the Yankees are denying us not
only liberty of speech and of the press, but even of
prayer, forcing the ministers in our Church to read the
prayer for their old renegade of a president and those
other odious persons "in authority" at Washington.
Well, as Bishop Elliot says, I don't know anybody
that needs it more.

But even if father does stick to the Union, nobody
can accuse him of being a sycophant or say that
he is not honest in his opinions. He was no less a
Union man in the days of persecution and danger
for his side than he is now. And though he still
holds to his love for the Union - if there is any such
thing - he has made no indecent haste, as some others
have done, to be friends with the Yankees, and he
seeks no personal advantage from them. He has
said and done nothing to curry favor with them, or
draw their attention to his "loyalty," and he has not
even hinted to us at the idea of paying them any social
attentions. Poor father, it is his own house, but he
knows too well what a domestic hurricane that would
raise, and though he does storm at us sometimes, when
we say too much, as if he was going to break the head
of the last one of us, he is a dear, good, sweet, old

father, after all, and I am ashamed of myself for my
undutiful conduct to him. I know I deserve to have
my head cracked, but oh! I do wish that he was on
our side! He is too good a man to be in the same political
boat with the wretches that are plundering and
devastating our country. He was right in the beginning,
when he said that secession was a mistake, and it
would be better to have our negroes freed in the Union,
if necessary, than out of it, because in that case, it
would be done without passion, and violence, and we
would get compensation for them - but now the thing
is done, and there is no use talking about the right or
the wrong of it. I sympathize with the spirit of that
sturdy old heathen I have read about somewhere, who
said to the priests who were trying to convert him, that
he would rather stick to his own gods and go to hell
with his warrior ancestors, than sit down to feast in
heaven with their little starveling band of Christians.
That is the way I feel about Yankees; I would rather
be wrong with Lee and his glorious army than right
with a gang of fanatics that have come down here to
plunder and oppress us in the name of liberty.

The Elzeys and other friends called after tea, and
we spent another half-happy, half-wretched evening
on the moonlit piazza. Even these pleasant reunions
make me sad because I know they must soon come to
an end. Since the war began, I have made friends
only to lose them. Dear Mrs. Elzey is like a gleam of
sunshine on a rainy day. She pitches into the Yankees

with such vigor, and says such funny things about
them, that even father has to laugh. Capt. Irwin is a
whole day of sunshine himself, but even his happy
temper is so dimmed by sadness that his best jokes
fall flat for want of the old spirit in telling them.
Gen. Yorke and his train left this morning. Fred is to
meet him in Augusta to-morrow and go as far as
Yazoo City with him, to look after father's Mississippi
plantation, if anything is left there to look after. The
general went off with both pockets full of my cigarettes,
and he laughingly assured me that he would
think of me at least as long as they lasted.

May 8, Monday. - We had a sad leave-taking at
noon. Capt. Irwin, finding it impossible to get transportation
to Norfolk by way of Savannah, decided last
night that he would start for Virginia this morning
with Judge Crump. He has no money to pay his way
with, but like thousands of other poor Confederates,
depends on his war horse to carry him through, and
on Southern hospitality to feed and lodge him. He
left his trunk, and Judge Crump his official papers,
in father's care. Mother packed up a large quantity of
provisions for them, and father gave them letters to
friends of his all along the route, through Georgia and
Carolina, as far as his personal acquaintance extends.
Our avenue was alive all the morning with Confederates
riding back and forth to bid their old comrades
good-by. The dear captain tried to keep up a brave
heart, and rode off with a jest on his lips and moisture

in his eyes, while as for us - we ladies all broke down
and cried like children. The dear old Judge, too,
seemed deeply moved at parting, and we could do nothing
but cry, and nobody could say what we wanted to.
Partings are doubly sad now, when the chances of
meeting again are so few. We shall all be too poor
to travel, and too poor to extend the hospitality for
which our Southern homes have been noted, any more.
The pinch of want is making itself felt more severely
every day, and we haven't the thought that we are
suffering for our country that buoyed us up
during the war. Men with thousands of Confederate
money in their pockets cannot buy a pin.
Father has a little specie which he was prudent
enough to lay aside at the beginning of the war,
but he has given a good deal of it to the boys at different
times, when they were hard up, and the little that
is left will have to be spent with the greatest care, to
feed our family. I could not even pay postage on a
letter if it were necessary to write one. I have serious
notions of trying to sell cigarettes to the Yankees in
order to get a little pocket money, - only, I could not bear the
humiliation.

Part of the regiment that plundered the train on the
Athens Branch has been sent to Washington, and is
behaving very badly. Aunt Cornelia's guard, too, refused
to stay with her any longer because he was not
invited to eat at the table with the family! Others of
the company then went there and committed all sorts

of depredations on the lot. They cursed Aunty and
threatened to burn the house down, and one of them
drew a pistol on Mr. Hull for interfering, but promptly
took to his heels when Mr. Hull returned the civility.
He soon came back with several of his comrades and
made such threats that Aunty sent to their commanding
officer and asked for a guard, but received for
answer that "they would guard her to hell." Capt.
Hudson then went to the provost-marshal in
command of the town, Capt. Lot Abraham, who
sent a lieutenant with another guard. Aunty complained
to the lieutenant of the way she had been
insulted, but he replied that the guard might stay or
not, as he chose; that she had not treated the former
one with proper consideration, and he would not compel
another to stay in her house. Aunty was ready to
choke with rage, she says, but dared not speak a word,
and now the family have to purchase safety by having
a horrid plebeian of a Yankee, who is fitter company
for the negroes in the kitchen, sit at the table with
them. The whole family are bursting with indignation,
but dare not show it for fear of having their
house burned over their heads. They spoke in whispers
while telling me about it, and I was so angry that
I felt as if I would like to run a knitting needle into
the rascal, who sat lolling at his ease in an armchair
on the piazza, looking as insolent as if he were the
master of the house. It is said we are to have a negro
garrison in Washington, and all sorts of horrible rumors

are afloat. But we know nothing except what
the tyrants choose that we shall. The form of parole
has been changed so that none of our officers are willing
to take it, and many of them slip through in the
night and make their escape without being paroled
at all.

Johnston's army is pouring in now. People are
getting used to the presence of the Yankees, and Washington
is a great thoroughfare for Confederates once
more. Lee's men used up all the breadstuffs in the
commissariat, so the newcomers have to depend on
private hospitality. The Yankees say they can't collect
corn and flour to replace what was destroyed during
the riots. They give out rations of meat, but nothing
else, and it is pitiful to see the poor fellows going about
the streets offering to exchange part of their scanty
ration of bacon for bread. Numbers of them come to
our door every day, begging for bread, and it almost
makes me cry when a poor fellow sometimes pulls
out a piece of rancid bacon from his haversack and
offers it in pay. Mother will never take anything from
a soldier, and we always share what little we have
with them. It gives me more pleasure to feed the
poor Rebs than to eat myself. I go out and talk
with them frequently, while they are waiting to
have their food cooked. This evening, two of them
were sitting on the front steps talking over their
troubles, and I heard one of them say: "If I kin
just git back home to Sally once more, I won't care

about nothin' else." He was young, I could see,
through all the dirt and grime on his face, so I suppose
"Sally" was either his sweetheart, or the young
bride he left when he went away to the war. Some
of our Confederates wear a dark, bluish-gray uniform
which is difficult to distinguish from the Federal
blue, and I live in constant fear of making a mistake.
As a general thing our privates have no uniform but
rags, poor fellows, but the officers sometimes puzzle
me, unless they wear the Hungarian knot on their
sleeves. It makes the letters, C.S.A., but one would
not be apt to notice the monogram unless it was pointed
out to him. It is a beautiful uniform, and I shall always
love the colors, gray and gold, for its sake - or
rather for the sake of the men who wore it. There
is a report that Confederate officers are going to be
ordered to lay aside their uniforms. It will be a black
day when this habit that we all love so well gives place
to the badge of servitude. There is nothing in the
history of nations to compare with the humiliations we
Southerners have to endure.

Brother Troup and Mr. Forline came in to-day.
Fred was left by the train this afternoon and will make
another start to-morrow, in company with Mr. Forline.
He is very anxious to reach Yazoo City, to save
some of father's property in the Yazoo Bottom, if he
can, but I am afraid there is nothing left to save.
They hope to get transportation with a Kentucky regiment
that is going by way of Savannah to Baltimore

or New York - a rather roundabout way to reach
Mississippi, but better than footing it overland in
the present disturbed state of the country.

May 9, Tuesday. - Ladies are beginning to visit a
little, though the streets are as crowded and dusty as
ever. Johnston's men are coming through in full tide,
and there is constant danger of a collision between
them and the Yankees. There are four brigades of
cavalry camped on the outskirts of town waiting to be
paroled. Contrary to their agreement with Lee and
Johnston, the Yankees now want to deprive these men
of their horses and side arms, and refuse to parole
them until they are dismounted and disarmed. Our
men refuse to submit to such an indignity and vow
they will kill every "d - d Yankee" in Washington
rather than suffer such a perfidious breach of faith.
Lot Abraham, or "Marse Lot," as we call him,
seems to be a fairly good sort of a man for a Yankee, and
disposed to behave as well as the higher powers will
let him. He has gone to Augusta with Gen. Vaughan,
who is in command of one of the refractory brigades,
to try to have the unjust order repealed. If he does
not succeed, we may look out for hot times. The
Yankees have only a provost guard here at present,
and one brigade of our men could chop them to mince
meat. I almost wish there would be a fight. It would
do my heart good to see those ruffians who insulted
Aunty thrashed out, though I know it would be the
worse for us in the end.

I have been exchanging experiences with a good
many people, and find that we have fared better than
most of our friends, on account, I suppose, of our retired
situation, and the distance of our house from the
street. While Gen. Stacy's men were camped out at
the mineral spring, he made his headquarters at
Mrs. James DuBose's house, and permitted his negro
troops to have the freedom of the premises, even after Mrs.
DuBose had appealed to him for protection. They go
into people's kitchens and try to make the other negroes
discontented and disobedient. Some of the girls who
live near the street tell me they don't venture to open
their pianos, because if they begin to play, they are liable
to be interrupted by Yankee soldiers intruding
themselves into the parlor to hear the music. People
are very much exasperated, but have no redress. Our
soldiers are likely to raise a row with them at any
time, but it would do no good. Yesterday, they gave
the garrison a scare by pretending to storm their quarters
in the courthouse. They say the Yankees are very
uneasy, and sing small whenever a big troop of our
men arrive, though they grow very impertinent in the
intervals. Our little town has witnessed only the saddest
act of the war - the dissolution of the Confederate
Government and the dispersal of our armies. The
Yankees are gathering up all the wagons and stores
that belonged to our government for their own use.
The remains of our poor little treasury have also been
handed over to them. I am sorry now that our

cavalry didn't complete their job and get the whole of
it. It seems hard that the supplies contributed out of
our necessities during these four years of privation for
the support of our own government, should go now to
fill the pockets of our oppressors.

The negroes, thus far, have behaved fairly well,
except where they have been tampered with. Not one
of father's has left us, and they are just as humble
and obedient as ever. On Sunday, a good many runaways
came in from the country but their loving
brothers in blue sent them back - not from any regard
for us or our institutions, but because they prefer to
have their pets fed by their masters until their plans
for emancipation are complete. They kept some of
the likeliest of the men who went to them, as servants,
and refused to give them up when the owners called
for them. Ben Harden, a giant of a country squire,
exasperated at their refusal to restore one of his men,
stepped in amongst them, collared the negro, and gave
him a thrashing on the spot. There were so many
Confederate soldiers on the square, watching the fracas,
that the little handful of a garrison didn't venture to
interfere, and he carried his negro off home unopposed.

Mrs. Elzey took tea with us. The general and Capt.
Hudson have gone to Augusta to try to raise money
to take them home. The general is going to sell all
his horses, even his favorite war horse, Nell, named for
his wife.

May 10, Wednesday. - Harry Day came over from
Macon looking very pale and ill. He brought letters
from our Macon friends. Since Confederate money
and Confederate postage stamps have "gone up,"
most of us are too poor to indulge in corresponding
with friends except by private hand, and besides,
the mails are so uncertain that one does not feel safe in
trusting them. We have had no mail at all for several
days and rumor has it that the Augusta post office
has been closed by order of the commanding officer, but
nobody knows anything for certain. Our masters do
not let us into their plans, and we can only wait in
suspense to see what they will do next. The "Constitutionalist"
has been suppressed because it uttered
sentiments not approved by the conquerors. And yet,
they talk about Russian despotism! Even father can't
find any excuse for such doings, though he says this
is no worse than the suppression of Union papers at
the beginning of the war by Secession violence. But
I think the sporadic acts of excited mobs don't carry
the same weight of responsibility, and are not nearly
so dangerous to the liberties of a country, as the
encroachments of an established government.

The hardest to bear of all the humiliations yet put
upon us, is the sight of Andy Johnson's proclamation
offering rewards for the arrest of Jefferson Davis,
Clement C. Clay, and Beverly Tucker, under pretense
that they were implicated in the assassination of Abraham
Lincoln. It is printed in huge letters on handbills

and posted in every public place in town - a flaming
insult to every man, woman, and child in the village,
as if they believed there was a traitor among us
so base as to betray the victims of their malice, even if
we knew where they were. If they had posted one of
their lying accusations on our street gate, I would tear
it down with my own hands, even if they sent me to
jail for it. But I am sure that father would never
permit his premises to be desecrated by such an infamy
as that. It is the most villainous slander ever perpetrated,
and is gotten up solely with a view to making
criminals of political offenders so that foreign governments
would be obliged to deliver them up if they
should succeed in making their escape. Fortunately,
the characters of the men they have chosen as scapegoats
are so far above suspicion as only to discredit
the accusers themselves in the eyes of all decent people.
The Clays were at our house while I was away last
winter, and father says Mr. Clay reminded him of our
friend Mr. Lafayette Lamar, and would be just about
as capable of murder. And Jefferson Davis, our
noble, unfortunate president - the accusation is simply
a disgrace to those who make it. If there should happen
to be any truth in that strangely persistent rumor
about Lincoln and Davis being brothers, what a situation
for the future Scotts and Schillers of America!
While there is no proof that I know of, the thing does
not seem so very improbable. I don't know anything
about old Sam Davis or his morals, but when David

said "all men are liars," he might have added another
and greater sin - and proved it by his own example.
There is undoubtedly a curious general resemblance in
the physique of the two men as shown in their pictures,
notwithstanding the plebeian aspect of the Illinois
railsplitter, which would easily be accounted for by the
circumstances of his birth. True or false, it is a situation
to rank with "Don Carlos," "Le Cid," or "Les
Frères Ennemis."

Our cavalry have won their point about the terms
of surrender, and rode triumphantly out of town this
afternoon, still retaining their side arms. There were
3,000 of them, and they made a sight worth looking at
as they passed by our street gate. It is well the Yanks
gave up to them, for they said they were determined
to fight again rather than yield, and our own returned
volunteers were ready to help them. They say the
little handful of a garrison were frightened all but out
of their wits anyway, for our men could have eaten
them up before they had time to send for reënforcements.
Some of our cavalry got drunk a night or two
ago, and drove them all into the courthouse, wounding
one man in the row. An officer came up from Augusta
to-day, with reënforcements. They seem to regard
Washington as true to its-old revolutionary sobriquet
of "The Hornets' Nest," and are evidently afraid to
stay here without a strong force while such large numbers
of our rebel soldiers are passing through. Johnston's
army is now in full sweep. The town is thronged

with them from morn till night, and from night till
morning. They camp in our grove by whole companies,
but never do any mischief. I love to look out
of my windows in the night and see their camp fires
burning among the trees and their figures moving
dimly in and out among the shadows, like protecting
spirits. I love to lie awake and hear the sound of
their voices talking and laughing over their hard experiences.
Metta and I often go out to the gate after
supper and sing the old rebel songs that we know will
please them.

May 11, Thursday. - Henry reached home late in
the afternoon, so ragged and dirty that none of us
knew him till he spoke. He had not had a change of
clothes for three weeks, and his face was so dirty that
he had to wash it before we could kiss him. He came
all the way from Greensborough, N. C., on horseback,
and when we asked him where he got his horse, he
laughed and said that he bought a saddle for fifty cents
in silver - his pay for three years' service - and kept
on swapping till he found himself provided with a
horse and full outfit. Garnett said he had better quit
medicine and go to horse trading. The scarcity of
specie gives it a fictitious value that brings down prices
wonderfully, but even this is not sufficient to account
for the sudden fall in the value of horses that has taken
place in the track of our returning armies. Even here
in Wilkes County, where the Confederate treasury
was raided and specie is comparatively plentiful, horses

sell every day at prices ranging from 50c. to $2.50;
and yesterday on the square, a negro sold one for 25c.
The tide of travel is now mostly westward, and the
soldiers help themselves to horses on the way that they
have no further use for when they strike the railroad
here, and are glad to sell them for any price they will
bring, or even turn them loose to get rid of them. Instead
of having to be guarded like gold, as was the
case a week or two ago, horses are now a drug on the
market at every railway station. Gen. Elzey says he
found no sale for his in Augusta. I don't know what
he will do for money to get home on.

Henry traveled out from Greensborough (N. C.)
with an artillery company which paid its way in cloth
and thread. The regiment to which he had been
attached disbanded and scattered soon after the surrender,
all except himself and the adjutant. Capt.
Hudson says Henry doctored the adjutant and the
adjutant officered him. They attached themselves to
Maj. Palmer's battalion of artillery and Henry traveled
as far as Ruckersville with it. He is now ready
to begin life anew with a broken-down old army horse
as his sole stock in trade. Garnett has not even that
much. The Yankees got his horse, and his boy Sidney,
whom he left with Henry when he took to the field,
disappeared - to enjoy the delights of freedom, I suppose.

The Yankees began favoring Gen. Toombs with
their attentions to-day. He and Gov. Brown and Mr.

Stephens have been permitted to remain so long
unmolested that people were beginning to wonder what it
could mean. To-day, however, news came of the arrest
of Brown and Stephens, and an attempt was made
to take Mr. Toombs. An extra train came in about
noon, bringing a company of bluecoats under the command
of a Capt. Saint - and a precious saint he proved
to be. Everybody thought they had merely come to
reënforce Capt. Abraham's garrison, but their purpose
was soon made apparent when they marched up to
Gen. Toombs's house. Cora was up there spending the
day, and saw it all. The general was in his sitting-room
when the Yankees were seen entering his front
gate. He divined their purpose and made his escape
through the back door as they were entering the front,
and I suppose he is safely concealed now in some country
house. The intruders proceeded to search the
dwelling, looking between mattresses and under
bureaus, as if a man of Gen. Toombs's size could be
hid like a paper doll! They then questioned the servants,
but none of them would give the least information,
though the Yankees arrested all the negro men
and threatened to put them in jail. They asked old
Aunt Betty where her master was, and she answered
bluntly: "Ef I knowed, I wouldn't tell you." They
then ordered her to cook dinner for them, but she
turned her broad back on them, saying: "I won't do no
sech a thing; I'se a gwineter hep my missis pack up
her clo'es." The servants were all very indignant at

the manner in which they were ordered about, and
declared that their own white folks had never spoken to
them in "any sech a way." Mrs. Toombs's dinner
was on the table and the family about to go into the
dining-room when the intruders arrived, and they ate
it all up besides ordering more to be cooked for them.
They threatened to burn the house down if the general
was not given up, and gave the family just two hours
to move out. Gen. Gilmer, who was in the old army
before the war, remonstrated with them, and they extended
the time till ten o'clock at night, and kindly
delivered up to them in the meantime. Mrs. Toombs
straightened herself up and said: "Burn it then," and
the family immediately began to move out. Neither
Mrs. Toombs nor Mrs. DuBose suffered the Yankees
to see them shed a tear, though both are ready to die
of grief, and Mrs. DuBose on the verge of her confinement,
too. Everything is moved out of the house
now, and Mrs. Toombs says she hopes it will be burned
rather than used by the miserable plunderers and their
negro companions. The family have found shelter
with their relatives and distributed their valuables
among their friends. The family pictures and some
of the plate are stored in our house, and mother invited
Mrs. Walthall here, but she went to the
Anthonys', knowing how crowded we are. Cora staid
with them till late in the afternoon, when the news of
Henry's arrival brought her home. I hope the general

will get off safe, and Gov. Brown too, though I never
admired him. But when people are in misfortune is
no time to be bringing up their faults against them.

The most infamous thing I ever heard of even a
Yankee doing, was their trying to entrap Gen.
Toombs's little grand-children into betraying him, and
little Toombs DuBose innocently informed them that
"grand-pa was in the house when they came." They
met Touch Elzey coming from school and taunted him
with being the son of a rebel, but he spoke up like a
man and said he was proud of being a rebel, and so
was his father. They insulted the boy by telling him
that now was his chance to make a fortune by informing
where the president and Mr. Clay were gone. Mrs.
Elzey was so angry when Touch told her about it that
she says she was ready to go on the war-path herself.

May12, Friday. - The Saint and his angels failed to
burn Gen. Toombs's house, after all. Whether the
threat was a mere idle swagger to bully helpless women
and children, time must reveal. Capt. Abraham returned
from Augusta to-day with more reënforcements,
and immediately apologized to Mrs. Toombs
for the insults to which she had been subjected, and
said that orders for the raid upon her were given over
his head and without his knowledge. He really seems
to have the instincts of a gentleman, and I am afraid I
shall be obliged to respect him a little, in spite of his
uniform. Although considerably reënforced, his garrison
seems to be still in wholesome fear of a conflict

with our throngs of disbanded soldiers. A cavalry-man
went to the courthouse the other day and deliberately
helped himself to a musket before their eyes,
and they did not even remonstrate. Our cavalry are
a reckless, unruly lot, yet I can't help admiring them
because they are such red-hot rebels. It may be foolish,
but somehow I like the spirit of those who refuse
to repent, and who swear they would do it all over, if
the thing were to be done again. A curious story was
told me to-day about the fate of some of the plundered
Confederate treasure. A troop of horsemen who
were making off with a bag of specie they had "captured,"
containing $5,000 in silver, were alarmed the
other day, just as they were riding past Gen. Toombs's
gate, by a report that the Yankees were after them,
and threw the sack over the fence into his yard. The
general sent it to the commandant as belonging to the
assets of the defunct Confederacy. I wish he had
thrown it into the fire rather than given it to them.

I had a little adventure with a party of Yankees
myself this afternoon. I was down in the back garden
with Marshall, Touchy, Gilmer Sale, and some other
boys, shooting at a mark with an Enfield rifle and a
minié musket they had picked up somewhere. We
were using the trunk of a small cedar at the foot of
the hill for our target, and it was such a retired spot
that we never dreamed of anybody's being within range
of our guns, when a dozen bluecoats came tearing down
the hill on the other side of the rose hedge, frightened

out of their senses and cursing like fury. They had
been taking a stroll through the woods on the other
side of the hedge, and when our balls began to whistle
about their ears, thought they were bushwhacked. I
heard one of them say, as he made his way through an
opening in the vines: "I never saw balls fly thicker in
battle." Fortunately for us they were unarmed and
could not return the fire. When they saw that the
supposed bushwhackers were only a woman and half
a dozen children, they sent one of their number to
speak with us. The little boys wanted to run when
they saw him coming, but I was afraid the affair might
get us into trouble unless I explained, so I stood waiting
for the envoy, with Marshall's rifle in my hand. I
told the man what we were doing, and expressed the
hope which happened, for once, to be sincere - that
we had not hurt anybody. He looked very gruff, and
answered: "No, you ain't shot anybody, but you came
within an inch of killing me. You ought to be more
careful how you shoot." I wanted to tell him that he
ought to be more careful how he went prowling about
on private grounds, but I didn't know what tale he
might carry to headquarters if I angered him, so I
answered very politely that I didn't know there was
anybody behind the hedge, or I would not have fired
in that direction.

"What are you shooting at, anyway?" he asked,
looking round unsatisfied and suspicious.

our wandering bullets. The fellow laughed, and
reaching out for the rifle, said: "Let me show you
how to shoot."

But I held fast to my weapon, though I knew I
couldn't fire it to save my life, without resting it on
something and pulling at the trigger with both hands,
but I thought it best to put on a brave face in the presence
of the enemy. He then took Gilmer's musket,
aimed it at a small vine no bigger round than my little
finger, twined about a sapling at least 100 feet away,
and cut it in two as clean as if he had done it with a
penknife. I couldn't help admiring the accuracy of his
shot, but I pretended to take no notice. He then examined
the empty barrel closely, returned it to Gilmer,
and marched away to join his companions, without
even touching his hat, as the most ignorant Confederate
would have done. The others were peeping all
the time through the hedge, and I heard one of them
ask him: "Why didn't you take the guns away from
the damned little rebels?" I didn't change my position
till they were out of sight, and then we all scuttled
off to the house as hard as we could go. We had not
been there long before a squad of soldiers came up the
avenue, and said there were some army guns in the
house, which they must have, as by the terms of the
surrender they were now the property of the Federal
Government. They called father "old fellow" in a
very insolent manner, that made me indignant.

of Johnston's men. I often go out to talk with them
in the evenings, and hear them tell about their homes
and their adventures in the war. They are all greatly
discontented with the peace, and I sympathize with
them. They are always grateful for an encouraging
word, and it is about all we have to give them now.
Most of them are plain, uneducated men, and all are
ragged and dirty and sunburnt. Some of the poor
fellows have hardly clothes enough to make them decent.
But they are Confederate soldiers, and those
honorable rags have seen some glorious fighting.

Gen. Elzey heard one Yankee soldier say to
another yesterday, as he was walking behind
them on the street, in passing our house: "Garnett
Andrews gave one of our men the hell of a
saber cut the other day, at Salisbury." I am
glad he gave them something so good to remember him
by. Poor Garnett is suffering very much from his
arm. He is confined to bed, threatened with fever,
and we can't get proper food for him. We have nothing
but ham, ham, ham, every day, and such crowds of
company in the house, and so many lunches to furnish,
that even the ham has to be husbanded carefully. It
is dreadful to think what wretched fare we have to set
before the charming people who are thrown upon our
hospitality. Ham and cornfield peas for dinner one
day, and cornfield peas and ham the next, is the tedious
menu. Mother does her best by making Emily give
us every variation on peas that ever was heard of; one

day we have pea soup, another, pea croquettes, then
baked peas and ham, and so on, through the whole
gamut, but alas! they are cornfield peas still, and often
not enough of even them. Sorghum molasses is all
the sweetening we have, and if it were not for the nice
home-made butter and milk, and father's fine old
Catawba wine and brandy, there would be literally
nothing to redeem the family larder from bankruptcy.
And if that were all, it would not be so bad, but there
is as great a scarcity of house linen as of provisions.
All that has not been given to hospitals or cut up into
underclothing, is worn out, and we have hardly anything
but the coarse yellow sheeting made by the
Macon and Augusta mills, with such a shortage of even
that, as not to give sheets enough to change the beds
half as often as they ought to be. As for towels,
mammy spends her whole time going from room to
room, gathering up the soiled ones and taking them
to the wash and back again as fast as they can be done,
and even then there are not enough to give everybody
a good clean wipe more than once a day. It is delightful
to have so many charming people in the house, but
dreadfully mortifying to think we can't entertain them
any better. Besides the guests staying in the house
we have a stream of callers all day long, both friends
and strangers. The Irvin Artillery are all back home
now and each one has some friend to introduce.

May 13, Saturday. - [Ms. torn]...The Yankees
have stopped our mails, or else the mails have

stopped themselves. We get no papers, but thousands
of wild rumors from every direction take their place
and keep us stirred up all the time. Among the arrivals
to-day was Mr. Wyman, who brought with him a
Dr. Nicholson, surgeon of his regiment [the 1st Alabama
Cavalry], and the poor fellows were so starved
that it made me tremble to see how our meager dinner
disappeared before them, though it did my heart good,
too, to see how they enjoyed it. They belong to
Wheeler's Cavalry, and we had a great time running
them about being in such bad company. Mother said
she was going to hide the silver, and Mr. Wyman told
her she had better search the doctor's pockets before
he went away, and the doctor gave the same advice
about Mr. Wyman. Their regiment was commanded
by the Col. Blakey I met in Montgomery winter before
last, and Mr. Wyman says he disbanded his men to
get rid of them. They tell all sorts of hard jokes on
themselves.

A favorite topic of conversation at this time is what
we are going to do for a living. Mary Day has been
working assiduously at paper cigarettes to sell the
Yankees. I made some myself, with the same intention,
but we both gave them all away to the poor Confederates
as fast as we could roll them. It is dreadful
to be so poor, but somehow, I can't suppress a forlorn
hope that it won't last always, and that a time may
come when we will laugh at all these troubles even
more heartily than we do now. But although we

laugh, I sometimes feel in my heart more like crying,
and I am afraid that father speaks the truth when he
says that things are more likely to become worse than
better.

May 14, Sunday. - Mr. Wyman and Dr. Nicholson
went their way this morning long before anybody was
up, so that I had to peep through the blinds to bid them
good-by. I told them the reason they were off so early
was to avoid having their pockets searched, and Dr.
Nicholson answered that they thought it best to get
out of the way before we had time to count the spoons.
They must have had a lively time on their journey
thus far, judging from Mr. Wyman's account of it.

On my way to church I had a striking illustration of
the difference between our old friends and our new
masters. The streets were thronged with rebel soldiers,
and in one part of my walk, I had to pass where
a large number of them were gathered on the pavement,
some sitting, some standing, some lying down,
but as soon as I appeared, the way was instantly cleared
for me, the men standing like a wall, on either side,
with hats off, until I had passed. A little farther on
I came to a group of Yankees and negroes that filled
up the sidewalk, but not one of them budged, and I
had to flank them by going out into the dusty road.
It is the first time in my life that I have ever had to
give up the sidewalk to a man, much less to negroes!
I was so indignant that I did not carry a devotional
spirit to church.

The Yankees have pressed five of father's negro
men to work for them. They even took old Uncle
Watson, whom father himself never calls on to do
anything except the lightest work about the place, and
that only when he feels like it. They are very capricious
in their treatment of negroes, as is usually the
case with upstarts who are not used to heaving servants
of their own. Sometimes they whip them and send
them back to their masters, and last week, Lot Abraham
sent three of his white men to jail for tampering
with "slaves," as they call them. This morning, however,
they sent off several wagon-loads of runaways,
and it is reported that Harrison and Alfred, two of
father's men, have gone with them. People are making
no effort to detain their negroes now, for they have
found out that they are free, and our power over them
is gone. Our own servants have behaved very well
thus far. The house servants have every one remained
with us, and three out of five plantation hands
whom the Yankees captured in Alabama, ran away
from them and came back home. Caesar Ann, Cora's
nurse, went off to Augusta this morning, professedly
to see her husband, who she says is sick, but we all
think, in reality, to try the sweets of freedom. Cora
and Henry made no effort to keep her, but merely
warned her that if she once went over to the Yankees,
she could never come back to them any more. Mother
will have to give up one of her maids to nurse Maud,
but I suppose it is a mere question of time when we

We have had an unusually quiet day. Only three
new guests, and two of them were sent by Judge
Crump to see father on business. They brought news
of the Judge and our dear Captain which we were glad
to hear. I walked in the grove after sunset and talked
with the rebels who were camping there, and we
mourned together over the capture of our beloved
President. Johnston's army will soon have all passed
through, and then the Yankee garrison will feel free
to treat us as it pleases. Several thousand of our men
pass through almost every day. Six thousand are
expected to-morrow. When the last one is gone,
what desolation there will be! I think I will hang
a Confederate uniform on a pole and keep it to
look at.

May 15, Monday. - Harry Day returned from
Augusta, bringing frightful accounts of what the taxes,
proscriptions, and confiscations are going to be. Father
says that if a man were to sit down and write a
programme for reducing a country to the very worst
condition it could possibly be in, his imagination could
not invent anything half so bad as the misery that is
likely to come upon us. The cities and towns are
already becoming overcrowded with runaway negroes.
In Augusta they are clamoring for food, which the
Yankees refuse to give, and their masters, having once
been deserted by them, refuse to take them back.

Even in our little town the streets are so full of idle
negroes and bluecoats that ladies scarcely ever venture
out. We are obliged to go sometimes, but it is always
with drooping heads and downcast eyes. A settled
gloom, deep and heavy, hangs over the whole land.
All hearts are in mourning for the fall of our country,
and all minds rebellious against the wrongs and oppression
to which our cruel conquerors subject us. I don't
believe this war is over yet. The Trans-Mississippi
bubble has burst, but wait till the tyranny and arrogance
of the United States engages them in a foreign
war! Ah, we'll bide our time. That's what all the
men say, and their eyes glow and their cheeks burn
when they say it. Though the whole world has deserted
us and left us to perish without even a pitying
sigh at our miserable doom, and we hate the whole
world for its cruelty, yet we hate the Yankees more,
and they will find the South a volcano ready to burst
beneath their feet whenever the justice of heaven hurls
a thunderbolt at their heads. We are overwhelmed,
overpowered, and trodden underfoot... but "immortal
hate and study of revenge" lives, in the soul of
every man....[Ms. torn.]

Mrs. Alfred Cumming, whose husband was Governor
of Utah before the war, came to see us this
morning. She tried to go to Clarkesville, but found
the country so infested with robbers and bushwhackers
and "Kirke's Lambs," that she dared not venture three
miles beyond Athens. The Yankees have committed

such depredations there that the whole country is destitute
and the people desperate. The poor are clamoring
for bread, and many of them have taken to "bushwhacking"
as their only means of living. Mrs. Cumming
traveled from Union Point to Barnett in the
same car with Mr. Stephens. The Yankee guard suffered
him to stop an hour at Crawfordville [his
home], in order to collect some of his clothing. As
soon as his arrival became known, the people flocked
to see him, weeping and wringing their hands. All
his negroes went out to see him off, and many others
from the surrounding plantations. Mrs. Cumming
says that as the train moved off, all along the platform,
honest black hands of every shape and size were
thrust in at the window, with cries of "Good-by, Mr.
Stephens;" "Far'well, Marse Aleck." All the spectators
were moved to tears; the vice-president himself
gave way to an outburst of affectionate - not
cowardly grief, and even his Yankee guard looked
serious while this affecting scene passed before their
eyes.

May 16, Tuesday. - Two delightful visitors after
tea, Col. Trenholm [son of the secretary of the
treasury] and Mr. Morgan, of the navy, who is to
marry his sister.

The news this evening is that we have all got to take
the oath of allegiance before getting married. This
horrid law caused much talk in our rebellious circle,
and the gentlemen laughed very much when Cora said:

"Talk about dying for your country, but what is that
to being an old maid for it?"

The chief thought of our men now is how to embroil
the United States either in foreign or internal commotions,
so that we can rebel again. They all say that
if the Yankees had given us any sort of tolerable terms
they would submit quietly, though unwillingly, to the
inevitable; but if they carry out the abominable programme
of which flying rumors reach us, extermination
itself will be better than submission. Garnett says
that if it comes to the worst, he can turn bushwhacker,
and we all came to the conclusion that if this kind of
peace continues, bushwhacking will be the most respectable
occupation in which a man can engage. Mr.
Morgan said, with a lugubrious smile, that his most
ambitious hope now is to get himself hanged as quickly
as possible.

May 17, Wednesday. - Cora has a letter from Mattie
[her sister] giving a very pathetic account of the
passage of the prisoners through Augusta. She says
that Telfair St. was thronged with ladies, all weeping
bitterly, as the mournful procession passed on, and
that even the President's Yankee guard seemed touched
by the exhibition of grief. The more sensitive may
have shut themselves up, as Mr. Day said, but I am
glad some were there to testify that the feeling of the
South is still with our fallen President and to shame
with their tears the insulting cries of his persecutors.

the afternoon so that I did not dress as much as usual,
and, of course, had more visitors than ever....
Maria Irvin said something which made me feel very
uncomfortable. I was sitting across the room from
her, and she told me, loud enough for everybody to
hear, that the first evening the Yankees arrived in
Washington, they were heard to say that they knew
all about Judge Andrews; he was a good Union man,
and they liked him. At my side was Maj. White, an
exile from Maryland, whose poor down-trodden State
has suffered so much, and I thought it was real spiteful
in her to be throwing up father's politics to me
there, so I flew up and told her that if my father was
a Union man he had more sons in the Confederate
army than hers had, * and he didn't wait
till the war
was over, like so many other people that I knew, to express
his Union sentiments. Father's politics distress
me a great deal, but nobody shall say a word against
him where I am. Poor, dear old father, everything he
said in the beginning has come true, just as he said it
would, even to the Confederacy being split in two
by an invasion through Tennessee or Kentucky, -
but all that don't make me love the ones that have
brought it about any better.

Johnston's army has
nearly all gone. The last large
body of troops has passed through, and in a few weeks
even the stragglers and hangers-on will have disappeared.
There have been no camp fires in our grove

since Sunday, but five of the dear old Rebs are sleeping
in our corn-crib to-night. They said they were too
dirty to come into the house, and they are so considerate
that they would not even sleep in an out-house
without asking permission. Hundreds, if not thousands
of them have camped in our grove, and the only
damage they ever did - if that can be called a damage,
- was to burn a few fence rails. In the whole history
of war I don't believe another instance can be found
of so little mischief being committed as has been done
by these disbanded, disorganized, poverty-stricken,
starving men of Lee's and Johnston's armies. Against
the thousands and tens of thousands that have passed
through Washington, the worst that can be charged is
the plundering of the treasury and the government
stores, and as they would have gone to the Yankees
anyway, our men can hardly be blamed for taking
whatever they could get, rather than let it go to the
enemy. They were on their way to far-distant homes,
without a cent of money in their pockets or a mouthful
of food in their haversacks, and the Confederate stores
had been collected for the use of our army, and were
theirs by right, anyway. They have hardly ever
troubled private property, except horses and provender,
and when we think of the desperate situation in which
they were left after the surrender, the only wonder is
that greater depredations were not committed. And
at the worst, what is the theft of a few bundles of fodder,
or even of a horse, compared with hanging men

up on a slack rope and poking them with bayonets to
make them tell where their valuables were hid; or to
pulling the cover off a sick woman as the Yankees did
that one at Barnesville, and exposing her person to
make sure she had no jewelry or money concealed in
the bed with her? The Northern papers are full of
wild stories about Southern lawlessness, though everybody
in this county can testify that the two or three
thousand sleek, well-fed Yankee troops who have come
here to take "peaceable possession" of the country
have committed ten times more depredations than the
whole Confederate army during its march into Pennsylvania.
Some of them broke into Col. Tom Willis's
cellar the other day, and when they had drunk as much
of his peach brandy as they could hold, they spit into
the rest to keep the "d - d rebels" from having it.
They strut about the streets of Washington with negro
women on their arms and sneak around into people's
kitchens, tampering with the servants and setting them
against the white people. Sometimes the more respectable
negroes themselves are disgusted at their conduct.
Mrs. Irvin says her old cook collared one the other
day and pushed him out of the kitchen.

I was greatly touched the other day by the history
of a little boy, not much bigger than Marshall, whom
I found in the back yard with a party of soldiers that
had come in to get their rations cooked. Metta first
noticed him and asked how such a little fellow came to
be in the army. The soldiers told us that his father

had gone to the war with the first volunteers from
their county, and had never been heard of again, after
one of the great battles he was in. Then the mother
died, and the little boy followed a party of recruits
who took him along with them for a "powder
monkey," and he had been following them around, a
sort of child of the regiment, ever since.

I asked him what he was going to do now, and he
answered: "I am going to Alabama with these soldiers,
to try and make a living for myself." Poor
little fellow! making a living for himself at an age
when most children are carefully tucked in their beds
at night by their mothers, and are playing with toys
or sent to school in the daytime. Metta gave him a
piece of sorghum cake, and left him with his friends.

May 18, Thursday. - Aunt Sallie gave a dinner to
Gen. and Mrs. Elzey. Everybody from our house
was invited except Cousin Liza, Metta, and me, who
were left out like children, because there wasn't room
for us at table. We were so delighted at being spared
the responsibility of getting up a dinner ourselves, that
we easily relieved the old lady's fear of giving offense
by leaving us out, especially as she sent us a lot of good
things from her feast. We had taken advantage of
the opportunity to spare our poverty-stricken larder,
and were making ourselves merry over a wretched
dinner of ham and cornfield peas, when Charity said:
"Here comes Simon with a waiter from Mis Brown."
The table looked so bare and doleful that Mett made

us laugh by ordering Charity, before we sat down, to
toll the dinner bell, and Cousin Liza, as she took her
seat, folded her hands and droned in a camp-meeting
tone:

"For Oh! I feel an aching void
That ham and peas can never fill."

I never laughed more in
my life, and the arrival of
Aunt Sallie's generous contribution did not detract
from our good spirits.

We had just finished
eating and got into our wrappers
when two rebel horsemen came galloping up
the avenue with news that a large body of Yankee
cavalry was advancing down the Greensborough road,
plundering the country as they passed. We hastily
threw on our clothes and were busy concealing valuables
for father, when the tramping of horses and
shouting of the men reached our ears. Then they
began to pass by our street gate, with two of their
detestable old flags flaunting in the breeze. I ran for
Garnett's field-glass and watched them through it. Nearly
all of them had bags of plunder tied to their saddles,
and many rode horses which were afterwards recognized
as belonging to different planters in the county.
I saw one rascal with a ruffled pillowcase full of
stolen goods, tied to his saddle, and some of them had
women's drawers tied up at the bottom ends, filled
with plunder and slung astride their horses. There
was a regiment of negroes with them, and they halted
right in front of our gate. Think of it! Bringing

armed negroes here to threaten and insult us! We
were so furious that we shook our fists and spit at
them from behind the window where we were sitting.
It may have been childish, but it relieved our feelings.
None of them came within the enclosure, but the
officers pranced about before the gate until I felt as
if I would like to take a shot at them myself, if I had
had a gun, and known how to use it. They are
camped for the night on the outskirts of the town, and
everybody expects to be robbed before morning. Father
loaded his two guns, and after the servants had been
dismissed, we hid the silver in the hollow by the chimney
up in the big garret, and father says it shall not
be brought out again till the country becomes more settled.
A furious storm came up just at sunset, and I
hope it will confine the mongrel crew to their tents.

May 19, Friday. - The storm lasted nearly all night,
and there were no plunderers abroad. It is some advantage
to live at a military post when the commandant
is a man like Capt. Abraham, who, from all accounts,
seems to try to do the best for us that he knows
how. Our men say that he not only listens, but attends
to the complaints that are carried to him by
white people as carefully as to those brought by
negroes. The other day a Yankee soldier fired into
our back porch and came near killing one of the servants.
I saw a batch of them in the back garden,
where the shot came from, and sent Henry to speak
to them, but they swore they had not been shooting.

Henry knew it was a lie, so he went and complained
to "Marse Lots" who said that such molestation of
private families should be stopped at once, and we have
not heard a gun fired on our premises since. It is a
pretty pass, though, when a gentleman can't defend his
own grounds, but has to cringe and ask protection
from a Yankee master.

Somebody has been writing in the "Chronicle &
Sentinel" accusing our armies of dissolving themselves
into bands of marauders. I am surprised that any
Southern paper should publish such a slander. Of
course, it is not to be expected that under the circumstances,
some disorders would not occur, but the wonder
is there have been so few. I have witnessed the
breaking up of three Confederate armies; Lee's and
Johnston's have already passed through Washington,
and Gen. Dick Taylor's is now in transit, but all these
thousands upon thousands of disbanded, disorganized,
disinherited Southerners have not committed one-twentieth
part of the damage to private property that
was committed by the first small squad of Yankee
cavalry that passed through our county. We are
beginning to hear from all quarters of the depredations
committed by the regiments, with their negro followers,
that came through town yesterday. Their
conduct so exasperated the people that they were bushwhacked
near Greensborough, and several of their
men wounded. They then forced the planters to furnish
horses and vehicles for their transportation.

Henry says that one of their own officers was heard to
remark on the square, that after the way in which they
had behaved he could not blame the people for attacking
them. When they bring negro troops among us
it is enough to make every man in the Confederacy
turn bushwhacker.

May 20, Saturday. - Harry Day took his departure
this morning. He seems to have enjoyed his visit
greatly, though I am afraid any pleasure he may have
got out of it was due more to the good company we
have in the house than to the merits of our housekeeping;
our larder is about down to a starvation
basis....

Capt. Hudson and Mrs. Alfred Cumming called
after breakfast, and while we were in the parlor with
them, a servant came in bringing a present of a pet
lamb for Marsh from Mrs. Ben Jordan. Father
laughed and said it was like sending a lamb among
hungry wolves, to place it in this famished household,
and Henry suggested that we make a general massacre
of pets.

May 21, Sunday. - I went to church with Mary Day.
Lot Abraham and some of his men were there. I
couldn't help thinking what an accession Lot would
have been if he had brought his wife and come among
us in the days of the Confederacy, when salt was at
such a premium. He is a big, tall fellow from Iowa,
not a spindling little down-Easter. Two of the Yankees
seated themselves in the pew with Charley Irvin,

who instantly rose and changed his seat. The others
had sense enough to take the hint and confine themselves
to vacant pews.

Mr. Adams preached, as usual. He prayed for all
prisoners and fugitives, and against injustice and
oppression, though in guarded language. He read the
Twenty-seventh Psalm, laying marked emphasis on
the words: "False witnesses have risen up against
me."

Capt. Hudson and Gen. Elzey came over in the
evening and took tea with us. We had a disgracefully
poor supper, but it was impossible to do any
better. Capt. Hudson is coming to-morrow to stay
at our house, and will be Garnett's guest till he can
get money to take him back to his home in Virginia.

While walking in the grove after dinner, I heard a
fine band playing in the street. I turned away and
tried not to listen, till little Marshall called to me that
it was a Confederate band. In his eagerness to hear, he
had climbed up on the fence and sat down in the midst
of a group of Yankee soldiers that had planted themselves
there, and told him it was Confederate music. I
made him get down and go back to the house with me.

May 22, Monday. - No visitors all day, except two
of father's country friends who came in to dinner.
In the afternoon Mary and I took the carriage and
made some calls that have been on our minds a long
time. Conversation was mostly an exchange of experiences.
We have suffered much less in town where

the soldiers are under some restraint, than the people
have on the plantations. The garrison are insolent,
and annoy housekeepers by their familiarity with the
servants, and at the same time they are hard on the
negroes that work for them, but we can submit to
these things for the sake of the protection the Iowa
hoosier tries to give us. On account of father's always
having been such a strong Union man, he is
supposed to have some influence with our new masters,
and is frequently appealed to by the citizens to lay
their grievances before the Yankee commandant, and
so he has become pretty well acquainted with him in a
business way. He says he is a dreadful vulgarian,
but seems to have plenty of good sense, and a good
heart. I suppose he is a Jew, but one can't always
judge by names. Two of the most infamous wretches
that have made themselves conspicuous here were
named "Saint" and "Angel." *

May 23,
Tuesday. - In bed nearly all day. Cousin
Liza read aloud to entertain me, but I slept through

most of it. I went to walk in the afternoon and met
John Garnett just from Albany, and he says the Yankees
are behaving better in South-West Georgia than
anybody expected. This makes us all feel very much
relieved on sister's account.

Capt. Goldthwaite, of Mobile, spent the night at our
house. He comes direct from Richmond and brings
welcome news from our friends there. The Elzeys
spent the evening.

May 24, Wednesday. - Capt. Abraham - the righteous
Lot - and his garrison left town this morning, and
no others have come as yet to take their place. They
were much disgusted at their reception here, I am
told and some of them were heard to declare that
there was not a pretty woman in the place. No wonder,
when the only ones that associated with them
were negroes. They had two negro balls while they
were here, the white men dancing with the negro
women. One night they held their orgy in Bolton's
Range, and kept everybody on the square awake with
their disgraceful noise. They strutted about the
streets on Sundays with negro wenches on their arms,
and yet their officers complain because they are not
invited to sit at the tables of Southern gentlemen!

We took tea at the bank with the Elzeys. Maj.
Hall is well enough to be out, and is a pleasant addition
to our circle of friends.

May 25, Thursday. - But few callers during the day.
Our gentlemen dined out. Gen. Elzey has been led

to change his plan of going to Charlotte in a wagon,
by news of the robbery of the Richmond banks. Five
hundred thousand dollars in specie had been secretly
packed and shipped from this place back to Richmond,
in wagons, but the train was waylaid by robbers and
plundered between here and Abbeville, somewhere
near the Savannah River. It is thought they mistook
it for the remains of the Confederate treasury. A
man came to see father this afternoon, in great haste
about it, but there is small hope of recovering anything.
The whole country is in disorder and filled
with lawless bands that call themselves rebels or Yankees,
as happens to suit their convenience. They say
it is not safe for a person to go six miles from town
except in company and fully armed, and I am not sure
that we shall be safe in the village, the negroes are
crowding in so. "Marse" Abraham did protect us
against them, in a way, and if his men hadn't tampered
with them so, I shouldn't be sorry to see him back
till things settle down a little. At present nobody
dares to make any plans for the future. We can only
wait each day for what the morrow may bring forth.
Oh, we are utterly and thoroughly wretched! One
of the latest proposals of the conquerors is to make
our Confederate uniform the dress of convicts. The
wretches! As if it was in the power of man to disgrace
the uniform worn by Robert E. Lee and Stonewall
Jackson! They couldn't disgrace it, even if they
were to put their own army into it.

May 26, Friday. - Our gentlemen dined out again. I
took a ride in the afternoon with Capt. Hudson. He
rode father's horse, "Mr. Ben," and I took his pony,
"Brickbat." We played whist after supper, but I
don't like cards, and it was stupid. Some of the bank
robbers have been caught, and $60,000 in money recovered,
but the prisoners were rescued by people living
in that part of the county. Gen. Porter Alexander
took some of the old Irvin Artillery and went out to
arrest such of the guilty ones as could be found. They
caught several who were suspected, but while the soldiers
were scattered around looking for others, the
Danburg people armed themselves and made a rescue.
All the money and plate that lives through these
troublous times will have strange histories attached to
it. One man had $1,000 in specie which he went out
to conceal as soon as he heard that the Yankees were
in his neighborhood. Before he could get it buried,
he heard a squad of horsemen coming down the road,
so he threw his bag of money over a hedge to get it
out of sight, and lo! there it struck a skulking Yankee
pat on the head! This is the tale the country people
tell, but so many wild reports are flying from mouth to
mouth that one never knows what to believe. Where
so many strange things are happening every day,
nothing seems incredible.

May 27, Saturday. - The Gordons and Paces are
here on their way home from Virginia. Nora was in
Richmond when it was evacuated, her nurse deserted

and went off to the Yankees, and she had an awful
time coming out. The general [John B. Gordon]
dropped in to see us; he is almost heartbroken over the
fall of the Confederacy. His career in the army was
so brilliant, no wonder he feels the bitter change for
himself as well as for his country.

After sitting awhile with Nora I went to see Mrs.
Elzey and found her cutting off the buttons from the
general's coat. The tyrants have prohibited the wearing
of Confederate uniforms. Those who have no
other clothes can still wear the gray, but must rip off
the buttons and decorations. The beautiful Hungarian
knot, the stars, and bars, the cords, the sashes, and
gold lace, are all disappearing. People everywhere
are ransacking old chests, and the men are hauling out
the old clothes they used to wear before the war, and
they do look so funny and old-fashioned, after the
beautiful uniforms we had all gotten used to! But the
raggedest soldier of the Confederacy in his shabby old
clothes is a more heroic figure in my eyes than any
upstart Yankee officer in the finest uniform he can get
into. Yet, it is pitiful, as well as comical, to see the
poor fellows looking so dowdy. I feel like crying
whenever I think of the change and all that it means.
We are a poverty-stricken nation, and most of them
are too poor to buy new clothes. I suppose we are
just now at the very worst stage of our financial
embarrassments, and if we can manage to struggle
through the next five or six months, some sort of currency

will begin to circulate again. I have clothes enough
to bridge over the crisis, I think, but mother's
house linen is hopelessly short, and our family larder
brought down to the last gasp. Father has a little
specie, saved from the sale of the cotton he shipped to
Liverpool before the war, but the country has been so
drained of provisions that even gold cannot buy them.
We have so much company that it is necessary to keep
up appearances and set a respectable table, which Mett
and I do, after a fashion, by hard struggling behind
the scenes. The table generally looks well enough
when we first sit down, but when we get up it is as bare
as Jack Sprat's. We have some good laughs at the
makeshifts we resort to for making things hold out.
We eat as little as we can do with ourselves, but we
don't want father's guests to suspect that we are
stinted, so Metta pretends to a loss of appetite, while
I profess a great fondness for whatever happens to be
most abundant, which is always sure to be cornfield
peas, or some other coarse, rank thing that I detest.
It would all be very funny, if it were not so mortifying,
with all these charming people in the house that
deserve to be entertained like princes, and are used to
having everything nice. Metta's delicate appetite and
my affection for cornfield peas are a standing joke
between us. She has the best of it, though, for she
simply starves, while I "nawsierate," as Charity says.
I make a face at the bag of peas whenever I go near
it in the pantry. I don't know what we should do if

it was not for Emily and Charity. They join in our
consultations, moan over our difficulties, and carry out
our plans with as much eagerness as old Caleb Balderstone,
in keeping up the credit of the family. Who
would ever have believed that we could come to this?
I can hardly believe it is I, plotting with the servants
in the pantry to get up a dinner out of nothing, like the
poor people I read about in books. It requires a great
deal of management to find time for both parlor and
kitchen, and to keep my manners and my dress unruffled.
However, Metta and I find so much to laugh
at in the comedies mixed up with our country's tragedy
that it keeps us in a good humor. Mother don't help
us much. She always did hate the worry of housekeeping,
and she never was used to such as this....
The servants, however, are treasures. With the exception
of those who went to the Yankees, they all
behave better and work harder than they did before.
I really love them for the way they have stood by us.

May 28, Sunday. - Nora and Mr. Pace spent the
evening with us, and Cousin Bolling and the Elzeys
dropped in, making quite a full table. Cousin Bolling
came up from Cuthbert to visit his father's family
before going to join Cousin Bessie in Memphis, and
will be obliged to stay indefinitely because he can't get
money to pay his way. After everybody else had
gone, he and Capt. Hudson staid and chatted with us
a long time. They taught us some thunderous German
words to say when we feel like swearing at the

Yankees, because Cora said she felt like doing it a
dozen times a day, but couldn't because she was a
woman. I remember this much:
"Potts-tousand-chock-schwer an oat - "
and my brain could carry
no more. I don't know how my spelling would look in
German; I would prefer a good, round, English
"damn" anyway, if I dared use it. A fresh batch of
Yankees have come to town under the command of
a Capt. Schaeffer. I have not seen any of them, but
I know they are frights in their horrid cavalry uniform
of blue and yellow. It is the ugliest thing I
ever saw; looks like the back of a snake. The business
of these newcomers, it is said, is to cram their nauseous
oath of allegiance down our throats.

May 29, Monday. - I went to the dépot to see Nora
and the Gordons off. The general sent me his love
and good-by yesterday, but that did not suffice. I
wanted to touch again the brave hand that has struck
so many blows for Southern liberty. He is a splendid-looking
man and the very pattern of chivalry. Fanny
Haralson was not thought to have done much of a
business when she married the poor young lawyer from
the mountains, but now she is the envy of womankind.
I wish old Mrs. Haralson could have lived to see her
son-in-law a lieutenant-general in the bravest army the
world ever saw; it would have brought joy unspeakable
to her proud heart - as who would not be proud
of such a son-in-law?

Mary Day, but Garnett told me he had invited the Elzeys
to dinner, so I came home to receive them. Capt.
Hudson brought Cousin Bolling, and we had a pleasant
little party. I have not seen people enjoy themselves
so much since our country fell under the tyrant's heel.
Gen. Elzey was really merry, and I was delighted to
see him recovering his spirits, for he has been the picture
of desolation ever since the crash came. I love
him and Mrs. Elzey better than almost anybody else
outside my own family. Father, too, is so fond of
Mrs. Elzey that he laughs at her fiery rebel talk, no
matter how hot she grows, and lets her say what he
wouldn't tolerate in the rest of us. Our household is
divided into factions - we out-and-out rebels being
most numerous, but the Unionists (father and mother)
most powerful; the "Trimmers" neither numerous
nor powerful, but best adapted to scud between opposing
elements and escape unhurt by either. I think
mother is inclined to waver sometimes and join the
rebels through sympathy with the boys, but she always
sticks to father in the long run. However, we did
not quarrel at all to-day; we Rebs had such strong
reenforcements that the others had no showing at all.

We had a good dinner, too - mock turtle soup,
barbecued lamb, and for dessert, sponge pudding with
cream sauce, and boiled custard sweetened with
sugar - no sorghum in anything. I have not seen such
a feast on our table for a long time, and we all ate
like ogres. The lamb, alas! was the pet Mrs. Jordan

had sent Marsh. It was mischievous, eating things
in the garden, and we too near starvation to let go any
good pretext for making way with it, so Marsh was
persuaded to consent to the slaughter and Garnett took
advantage of the occasion to feast his friends, and the
wolf in the fable never fell upon his victim more
ravenously than we upon poor little Mary Lizzie, as
Mrs. Jordan had christened her pet. The pudding
and boiled custard were due to an order father has
sent to Augusta for groceries, and mother felt so
triumphant over the prospect of having something in the
pantry again, that she grew reckless and celebrated
the event by using up all the sugar she had in the
house. There was plenty of everything, so Mett
recovered her appetite and I suddenly lost my fondness
for cornfield peas.

May 30, Tuesday. - Rain all day, but we had a jolly
time, nevertheless. After dinner we played euchre,
with gingercakes for stakes, and when the bank broke
on them, descended to a game of "Muggins." The
captain gave us all mustaches, and we put on hats and
coats and went to visit Aunt Sallie. Mett and Henry
fought a duel with popguns, and when we saw Gen.
Elzey coming up the avenue, we turned our popguns
on him, till at last father said we were getting so boisterous
he had to call us to order. Gen. Elzey stayed
to tea, and Gardiner Foster dropped in. The general
wore a gray coat from which all the decorations had
been ripped off and the buttons covered with plain

gray cloth, but he would look like a soldier and a
gentleman even in a Boston stove-pipe hat, or a suit of
Yankee blue. Some of our boys put their discarded
buttons in tobacco bags and jingle them whenever a
Yank comes within earshot. Some will not replace
them at all, but leave their coats flying open to tell the
tale of spoliation. Others put ridiculous tin and horn
buttons on their military coats. The majority, however,
especially the older ones, submit in dignified
silence to the humiliating decree. Old-fashioned citizen's
suits that were thrown aside four years ago are
now brought out of their hiding-places, and the dear
old gray is rapidly disappearing from the streets. Men
look upon our cause as hopelessly lost, and all talk of
the Trans-Mississippi and another revolution has
ceased. Within the last three weeks the aspect of affairs
has changed more than three years in ordinary
times could have changed it. It is impossible to write
intelligibly even about what is passing under one's
eyes, for what is true to-day may be false to-morrow.
The mails are broken up so that we can send letters
only as chance offers, by private hand, and the few
papers we get are published under Yankee censorship,
and reveal only what the tyrants choose that we shall
know.

May 31, Wednesday. - Out nearly all day, returning
calls with Mary Day. She is very delicate, and does
not care much for general society, but we have so many
pleasant people in the house that it is never dull here.

She plays divinely on the piano, and her music adds a
great deal to the pleasure of the household.

The newcomers under Capt. Schaeffer seem to be as
fond of our grove as were Capt. Abraham's men.
Some of them are always strolling about there, and
this morning two of them came to the house and asked
to borrow 'Ginny Dick's fiddle! I suppose they are
going to imitate their predecessors in giving negro
balls. Abraham's men danced all night with the odorous
belles, and it is said the "righteous Lot" himself
was not above bestowing his attentions on them. I
hope Dick will have more self-respect than to play for
any such rabble. He always was a good negro, except
that he can't let whisky alone whenever there is a
chance to get it. Poor darkeys, they are the real victims
of the war, after all. The Yankees have turned
their poor ignorant heads and driven them wild with
false notions of freedom. I have heard several well-authenticated
instances of women throwing away their
babies in their mad haste to run away from their homes
and follow the Northern deliverers. One such case,
Capt. Abraham himself told father he saw in Mississippi.
Another occurred not a mile from this town,
where a runaway, hotly pursued by her master, threw
an infant down in the road and sped on to join the
"saviors of her race," with a bundle of finery clasped
tightly in her arms. Our new ruler is as little disposed
to encourage them in running away as was
"Marse Lot," but their heads have been so turned by

the idea of living without work that their owners are
sometimes obliged to turn them off, and when they
run away of their own accord, they are not permitted
to come back and corrupt the rest. In this way they
are thrown upon the Yankees in such numbers that
they don't know what to do with them, and turn the
helpless ones loose to shift for themselves. They are
so bothered with them, that they will do almost anything
to get rid of them. In South-West Georgia,
where there are so many, they keep great straps to
beat them with. Mrs. Stowe need not come South for
the Legree of her next novel. Yankees always did
make notoriously hard masters; I remember how
negroes used to dread being hired to them, before the
war, because they worked them so hard.

The great armies have about all passed through, and
now are coming the sick from the hospitals and
prisons, poor fellows, straggling towards their homes.
They often stop to rest in the cool shade of our grove,
and the sight of their gray coats, no matter how ragged
and dirty, is refreshing to my eyes. Two Missourians
came to the house yesterday morning for breakfast,
and mother filled them up with everything good she
could find, and packed them up a generous lunch besides.
She is a better rebel than she thinks herself,
after all. If anybody in the world does merit good
usage from all Southerners, it is these brave Missourians,
who sacrificed so much for our cause, in which
they had so little at stake for themselves.

CHAPTER VI

FORESHADOWINGS OF THE RACE PROBLEM

June 1 - July 16, 1865

EXPLANATORY NOTE. - I
would gladly have left out the
family dissensions about politics with which this and the
preceding chapter abound, could it have been done
consistently with faithfulness to the original narrative
which I have sought to maintain in giving to the public
this contemporary record of the, war time. It is due to
my father's memory, however, to say that his devotion
to the Union was not owing to any want of sympathy
with his own section, but to his belief that the interests
of the South would be best served by remaining under
the old flag. No man was ever in more hearty accord
with our civilization and institutions than he. The question
with him was not whether these ought to be preserved,
but by what means their safety could best be
assured. His judgment told him that secession must
inevitably be a failure, in any case. Even could we have
held our own in the face of the overwhelming odds
against us, and established our independence, he believed
that the disintegrating forces of inter-state jealousies and
the intrigues of self-seeking politicians would soon have
dissolved the bonds of a loosely-organized confederation,
based on the right of secession, and left us in the end,
broken and divided, at the mercy of our powerful centralized
neighbor. I think, too, his common sense told
him that slavery was bound to go, sooner or later, and if

emancipation must come, it would be better that it should
take place peacefully and by carefully prearranged steps
than with the violence and unreason which he foresaw
were sure to follow in case of war. He was a large slaveholder
himself, and honestly believed, like most of his
class, that a condition of mild servitude secured by strict
regulations against abuses, was the best solution of the
"negro problem" bequeathed us by our ancestors. We
were in the position of the man who had the bull by
the horns and couldn't let loose if he wanted to, for fear
of being gored. Yet, in spite of the dangers and difficulties
that beset this course, his pride and faith in the
future of the great republic his father had fought for,
were so great, that if forced to choose, he would have
preferred emancipation, under proper safeguards,
rather than disruption of the Union.

But while he believed that peaceable and gradual emancipation
would have been a lesser evil than disunion, he
was bitterly and unalterably opposed to negro suffrage,
and regarded it as the greatest of all the evils brought
upon us by the war. He used to say in the early days,
when the possibility of such a thing first began to be
talked of among us, that it would be better to concede
everything else, and accept any terms we could get, no
matter how hard, provided this one thing could be averted,
than risk the danger of provoking the North, by useless
resistance, to employ this deadliest weapon in the armory
of strife to crush us. Such advice was unpopular at the
time, but it was a mere question of policy. He deplored
the misfortunes of the South as much as anybody; we
differed only in our opinion as to who was to blame
for them, and how they were to be remedied. We laid
all our sufferings at the door of the hated Yankees; he
blamed the authors of the secession movement - "the fool

secessionists," he used to call them, when angry or heated
by contradiction, but more commonly, "the poor fools,"
in a tone of half-pitying rebuke, just as he had spoken of
them on that memorable night when the bells were ringing
for the secession of his State.

It was probably his warmth in advocating this policy to
"agree with the adversary quickly" lest a worse thing
should befall us by delay, that led to his action at the
public meeting referred to in the text. What was said and
done on that occasion, and the substance of the resolutions
that gave such offense, I know no more to this day than
when the account in the journal was penned. The subject
was never alluded to between us and our father.
Whether the course of events would have been altered
if counsels such as his had prevailed, no one can tell.
The passion and fury of the time were not favorable to
moderation, and the fatal mistake was made, that has
petrified the fifteenth amendment in our national constitution,
and injected a race problem into our national life.
There it stands to-day, a solid wedge of alien material
cleaving the heart wood of our nation's tree of life, and
throwing the dead weight of its impenetrable mass on
whatever side its own interest or passion, or the influence
of designing politicians may direct it.

June 1, Thursday. - I dressed up in my best, intending
to celebrate the Yankee fast by going out to pay
some calls, but I had so many visitors at home that
I did not get out till late in the afternoon. I am sorry
enough that Lincoln was assassinated, Heaven knows,
but this public fast is a political scheme gotten up to

throw reproach on the South, and I wouldn't keep it
if I were ten times as sorry as I am.

The "righteous Lot" has come back to town. It
is uncertain whether he or Capt. Schaeffer is to reign
over us; we hope the latter. He is said to be a very
gentlemanly-looking person, and above associating
with negroes. His men look cleaner than the other
garrison, but Garnett saw one of them with a lady's
gold bracelet on his arm, which shows what they are
capable of. I never look at them, but always turn
away my head, or pull down my veil when I meet any
of them. The streets are so full of negroes that I
don't like to go out when I can help it, though they
seem to be behaving better about Washington than in
most other places. Capt. Schaeffer does not encourage
them in leaving their masters, still, many of them
try to play at freedom, and give themselves airs that
are exasperating. The last time I went on the street,
two great, strapping wenches forced me off the sidewalk.
I could have raised a row by calling for protection
from the first Confederate I met, or making
complaint at Yankee headquarters, but would not stoop
to quarrel with negroes. If the question had to be
settled by these Yankees who are in the South, and see
the working of things, I do not believe emancipation
would be forced on us in such a hurry; but unfortunately,
the government is in the hands of a set of crazy
abolitionists, who will make a pretty mess, meddling
with things they know nothing about. Some of the

Yankee generals have already been converted from
their abolition sentiments, and it is said that Wilson
is deviled all but out of his life by the negroes in
South-West Georgia. In Atlanta, Judge Irvin says
he saw the corpses of two dead negroes kicking about
the streets unburied, waiting for the public ambulance
to come and cart them away.

June 4, Sunday. - Still another batch of Yankees,
and one of them proceeded to distinguish himself at
once, by "capturing" a negro's watch. They carry
out their principles by robbing impartially, without regard
to "race, color, or previous condition." 'Ginny
Dick has kept his watch and chain hid ever since the
bluecoats put forth this act of philanthropy, and
George Palmer's old Maum Betsy says that she has
"knowed white folks all her life, an' some mighty
mean ones, but Yankees is de fust ever she seed mean
enough to steal fum niggers." Everybody suspected
that mischief was afoot, as soon as the Yankees began
coming in such force, and they soon fulfilled expectations
by going to the bank and seizing $100,000 in
specie belonging to one of the Virginia banks, which
the Confederate cavalrymen had restored as soon as
they found it was private property. They then arrested
the Virginia bank officers, and went about town
"pressing" people's horses to take them to Danburg,
to get the "robbers" and the rest of the money, which
they say is concealed there. One of the men came to
our house after supper, while we were sitting out on

the piazza, and just beginning to cool off from a furious
political quarrel we had had at the table. Father
could not see very well without his glasses, and mistook
him for a negro and ordered him off - an error
which I took care not to correct. He then made his
errand known, and produced an order from Capt.
Abraham for father's carriage horses. Garnett and
Capt. Hudson quickly moved towards him, ready to
resist any insolence. He was mighty civil, however,
and tried to enter into conversation by remarking
upon the pleasantness of the weather, but people about
to be robbed of their carriage horses are not in a mood
for seeing the pleasant side of things and nobody took
any notice of him, except old Toby, who is too sensible
a dog and too good a Confederate to tolerate the
enemies of his country. I don't know how father and
Garnett managed it, but the fellow finally went off
without the horses, followed by a parting growl from
Toby.

After this interruption we resumed our conversation,
and became so much interested that father, Garnett,
Capt. Hudson, and I sat up till twelve o'clock,
much to the disgust of Mett and Mary Day, who were
trying to sleep, in rooms overlooking the piazza. It
was not politics, this time, either, but the relative merits
of Dickens and Thackeray, and I think it would be
much better if we would stick to peaceful encounters
of this sort instead of the furious political battles we
have, which always end in fireworks, especially when

June 5, Monday. - Went to call on Mrs. Elzey with
some of our gentlemen, and talk over plans for a
moonlight picnic on Thursday or Friday night; then
to see Mrs. Foreman, and from there to the Alexanders.
On my return home, found Porter Alexander
in the sitting-room, and Garnett came in soon after
with Gen. Elzey, who staid to dinner. Mother was
dining out, but fortunately I had a good dinner -
mock turtle soup, mutton chops, roast lamb with mint
sauce, besides ham and vegetables. After dinner, I
had just stretched myself on the bed for a nap, when
Jim Bryan was announced, and before I had finished
dressing to go downstairs, Garnett sent word that he
had invited a party of Confederate officers, on their
way back to Virginia from various points where they
had been stranded, to take supper with us. Only two
of them came, however, Maj. Hallet, a very boyish-looking
fellow for a major, and Capt. Selden, a very
handsome man, and as charming as he was good-looking.
The others wouldn't come because they said they
were too ragged and disreputable to go where ladies
were. Captain Selden said they hadn't twenty-five
cents among them, and told some very funny stories
of their pinching and scheming to make their way
without money. "We have been flanking hotels ever
since we left Macon," he said with a laugh, and I was
so glad we had the remains of our good dinner to give

them. Maj. Hallet said he staid in Macon four weeks
after he got his discharge trying to raise money enough
to pay his fare home, but couldn't clear 50c., and
Garnett consoled him by confessing that he had just
had to beg father for a quarter to pay the barber.
Then Mett and I related some of our house-keeping
difficulties, including poor "Mary Lizzie's" tragic
end, which raised shouts of laughter - and we didn't
tell the worst, either. It seems strange to think how
we laugh and jest now, over things that we would
once have thought it impossible to live through. We
are all poor together, and nobody is ashamed of it.
We live from hand to mouth like beggars. Father
has sent to Augusta for a supply of groceries, but it
will probably be a week or more before they get here,
and in the meantime, all the sugar and coffee we have
is what Uncle Osborne brings in. He hires himself
out by the day and takes his wages in whatever provisions
we need most, and hands them to father when he
comes home at night. He is such a good carpenter
that he is always in demand, and the Yankees themselves
sometimes hire him. Father says that except
Big Henry and Long Dick and old Uncle Jacob, he is
the most valuable negro he ever owned. *

A Yankee came this morning before breakfast and
took one of father's mules out of the plow. He
showed an order from "Marse" Abraham and said
he would bring the mule back, but of course we never
expect to see it again. I peeped through the blinds,
and such a looking creature, I thought, would be quite
capable of burning Columbia. Capt. Schaeffer seems
to be a more respectable sort of a person than some of
the other officers. He not only will not descend to associate
with negroes himself, but tries to keep his men
from doing it, and when runaways come to town, he
either has them thrashed and sent back home, or put
to work on the streets and made to earn their rations.
The "righteous Lot" too, to do him justice, does try
to restrain their insolence on the streets, but mammy,
who hears all the negro news, says he went to their
balls and danced with the black wenches! And yet,

these "conquering heroes" have the face to complain
because they are not admitted to our homes - as if we
would stoop to share their attentions with our negro
maids, even if there was not a yawning gulf of blood
between us and them! People are so outraged at the
indecent behavior going on in our midst that many
good Christians have absented themselves from the
Communion Table because they say they don't feel fit
to go there while such bitter hatred as they feel towards
the Yankees has a place in their hearts. The
Methodists have a revival meeting going on, and last
night one of our soldier boys went up to be prayed for,
and a Yankee went up right after and knelt at his side.
The Reb was so overcome by his emotions that he
didn't know a Yankee was kneeling beside him till Mr.
Norman alluded to it in his prayer, when he spoke of
the "lamb and the lion" lying down together. But the
congregation don't seem to have been greatly edified
by the spectacle. Some of the boys who were there
told me they were only sorry to see a good Confederate
going to heaven in such bad company. It is
dreadful to hate anybody so, and I do try sometimes
to get these wicked feelings out of my heart, but as
soon as I begin to feel a little like a Christian, I hear
of some new piece of rascality the Yankees have done
that rouses me up to white heat again.

June 6, Tuesday. - Strange to say the Yankee
brought back father's mule that was taken yesterday -
which Garnett says is pretty good evidence that it

wasn't worth stealing. They caught five of the men
accused of being implicated in the bank robbery, and
brought them to Washington, but they have every one
escaped, and I am glad of it. I would like to see the
guilty ones punished, of course, but not by a military
tribunal with no more regard for law and justice than
these Yankee courts have, where negro evidence counts
against white people just as much, if not more, than
a white man's.

They did not find any of the treasure, and I am glad
of that, too, for if the proper owners don't get it, I
would rather Southern robbers should have it than
Yankee ones. They are making a great ado in their
Northern newspapers, about the "robbing of the Virginia
banks by the Confederates" but not a word is
said in their public prints about the $300,000 they
stole from the bank at Greenville, S. C., nor the thousands
they have taken in spoils from private houses,
as well as from banks, since these angels of peace
descended upon us. They have everything their own
way now, and can tell what tales they please on us, but
justice will come yet. Time brings its revenges,
though it may move but slowly. Some future Motley
or Macaulay will tell the truth about our cause, and
some unborn Walter Scott will spread the halo of
romance around it. In all the poems and romances
that shall be written about this war, I prophesy that
the heroes will all be rebels, or if Yankees, from some
loyal Southern State. The bare idea of a full-blown

Yankee hero or heroine is preposterous. They made
no sacrifices, they suffered no loss, and there is nothing
on their side to call up scenes of pathos or heroism.

This afternoon our premises were visited by no less
a person that the "righteous Lot" himself, who came
to inspect Capt. Parker's boxes, which he pronounced
to be Confederate property.

I had been out plum hunting with the children, and
was up in my room, changing my dress when he came,
and I couldn't help feeling "riled" - there is no other
word that expresses it - when I peeped through the
blinds and saw him breaking open and prying into
these poor little relics of the Confederacy. It seemed
like desecrating the memory of the dead.

Still another batch of Yankees, on this afternoon's
train, and our men say their commander promises
better than even Schaeffer. They say he looks like a
born gentleman, while Schaeffer was nothing but a
tailor when he went into the army. A precious lot of
plebeians they are sending among us! It is thought
this last comer will rule over us permanently, but they
make so many changes that no one can tell who is to be
the next lord paramount. There must surely be something
in the wind, they are gathering here in such
numbers. I feel uneasy about Gen. Toombs, who, not
more than a week ago, was still in the county.

June 7, Wednesday. - I started out soon after breakfast
and got rid of several duty visits to old ladies and
invalids. There is certainly something in the air. The

town is fuller of bluecoats than I have seen it in a long
time. I crossed the street to avoid meeting a squad
of them, but as I heard some of them make remarks
upon my action, and didn't wish to do anything that
would attract their notice, I bulged right through the
midst of the next crowd I met, keeping my veil down
and my parasol raised, and it wouldn't have broken my
heart if the point had punched some of their eyes out.
While we were at dinner Gardiner Foster and Sallie
May Ford came in from Augusta, and left immediately
after for Elberton. They say that when the
prayer for the President of the United States was read
for the first time in St. Paul's Church, not a single
response was heard, but when Mr. Clarke read the
"Prayer for Prisoners and Captives," there was a
perfect storm of "Amens."

While we were at dinner the faithful Abraham
came with a wagon to carry off Capt. Parker's boxes,
and father sent a servant and invited him to a seat
on the piazza till he could go to him. There is some
talk of father's being made provisional Governor of
Georgia; that is, his old political friends are anxious
to have him appointed because they think, that while
his well-known Union sentiments all through the war
ought to make him satisfactory to the Yankees, they
know he would have the interests of Georgia at heart
and do everything he could to lighten the tyranny that
must, in any case, be exercised over her. But I think,
to hold an office under Andy Johnson, even for the

good of his country, would be a disgrace, and my dear
father is too honorable a man to have his name mixed
up with the miserable gang that are swooping down
upon us, like buzzards on a battlefield.

I am afraid we shall have to part with Emily and
her family. Mother never liked her, and has been
wanting to get rid of her ever since "freedom struck
the earth." She says she would enjoy emancipation
from the negroes more than they will from their masters.
Emily has a savage temper, and yesterday she
gave mother some impudence, and mother said she
couldn't stand her any longer, and she would have to
pack up and go. Then Emily came crying to Mett and
me and said that Mistis had turned her off, and we all
cried over it together, and Mett went and shut herself
up in the library and spent the whole afternoon there
crying over Emily's troubles. Mother hasn't said anything
more about it to-day, but the poor darkey is very
miserable, and I don't know what would become of
her with her five children, for Dick can't let whisky
alone, and would never make a support for them.
Besides, he is not fit for anything but a coachman, and
people are not going to be able to keep carriages now.
I felt so sorry for the poor little children that I went
out and gave them all a big piece of cake, in commiseration
for the emptiness their poor little stomachs will
sooner or later be doomed to, and then I went and had
a talk with father about them. He laughed and told
me I needn't be troubled; he would never let any of

his negroes suffer as long as he had anything to share
with them, and if mother couldn't stand Emily, he
would find somebody else to hire her, or see that the
family were cared for till they could do something for
themselves. Of course, now that they are no longer
his property, he can't afford to spend money bringing
up families of little negro children like he used to, but
humanity, and the natural affection that every right-minded
man feels for his own people, will make him
do all that he can to keep them from suffering. Our
negroes have acted so well through all these troublous
times that I feel more attached to them than ever. I
had a long talk with mammy on the subject to-day, and
she says none of our house servants ever had a thought
of quitting us. * She takes a very
sensible view of
things, but mammy is a negro of more than usual
intelligence. "There is going to be awful times
among the black folks," she says. "Some of 'em 'll
work, but most of 'em won't without whippin', and
them what won't work will steal from them that does,

an' so nobody won't have nothin'." She will never
leave us, unless to go to her children.

June 8, Thursday. - A letter came from sister while
we were at table, giving an account of her experience
with the Yankees. The only way she can manage to
write to us is by keeping a letter always on hand with
Mr. Hobbs, in Albany, to be forwarded by any opportunity
he finds. We write to her by sending our letters
to Gus Bacon, in Macon, and he has so much
communication with Gum Pond that he can easily forward
them there. The chief difficulty is in getting
them from here to Macon. Nobody has money to
travel much, so it is a mere chance if we find anybody
to send them by. The express will carry letters, but
it is expensive and uncertain.

Capt. Hudson has been amusing himself by teaching
Marshall and some of his little friends to dance. They
meet in our parlor at six o'clock every afternoon.
Mary Day and I assist, she by playing the piano, and
I by dancing with the children and making them keep
time. At first only the Pope and Alexander children
and Touch were invited, but so many others have

dropped in that I call him "the village dancing master."
Cousin Bolling came over this afternoon, and
we had a pleasant little chat together till the buggy
was brought round for Mary and me to drive. We
went out the Abbeville road, and met four soldiers just
released from the hospitals, marching cheerily on their
crutches. I offered to take two of them in the buggy
and drive them to town, and send back for the others,
but they said they were going to camp there in the
fields and would not put me to the trouble. I talked
with them a long time and they seemed to enjoy telling
of their adventures. Two of them had very bright,
intelligent faces, and one smiled so pleasantly that
Mary and I agreed it was worth driving five miles
just to see him. I told them that the sight of their
gray coats did my heart good, and was a relief to my
eyes, so long accustomed to the ugly Federal blue.

June 9, Friday. - Mary Wynn has come to make us
a little visit. None of our gentlemen were home to
dinner; but came in just before supper, from a private
barbecue at Capt. Steve Pettus's plantation. They
tried to tease us by pretending to have forgotten our
warnings, and indulged too freely in the captain's
favorite form of hospitality - Henry clean done up,
Capt. Hudson just far enough gone to be stupid, and
Garnett not quite half-seas over. They acted their
parts to perfection and gave us a good laugh, but
fooled nobody, because we know them well enough
to be always on the lookout for a joke, and besides, we

knew they would not really do such a thing. We
danced awhile after supper, but it was too hot for exercise,
so we went out on the lawn and sang Confederate
songs. Some Yankee soldiers crept up behind the rose
hedge and listened, but Toby's bark betrayed them, so
we were careful not to say anything that would give
them an excuse for arresting us. I love all the dear
old Confederate songs, no matter what sort of doggerel
they are - and some of them are dreadful. They
remind me of the departed days of liberty and
happiness.

June 10, Saturday. - Our pleasant evening had a sad
termination. We went to our rooms at twelve o'clock,
and I had just stretched myself out for a good night's
rest when mother came to the door and said that father
was very ill. I sprang to the floor and went to get a
light and hunt for the laudanum bottle, while Metta
flew to the cottage after Henry. He had gone to see a
patient, so we sent for Dr. Hardesty. Father began
to grow better before the doctor arrived, and when he
went away, was pronounced out of danger, but I
couldn't help feeling anxious, and slept very little during
the night. A man of father's age and feeble
health cannot well stand a severe attack of illness, and
I felt cold with terror every time I thought of the
possibility that he might die. Oh, how I reproached
myself for being so often disrespectful about his politics,
and I solemnly vow I will never say anything
to vex him again. He is the dearest, best old father

that ever lived, and I have talked dreadfully to him
sometimes, and now I am so sorry. He is much better
to-day - entirely out of danger, the doctor says, but
must not leave his bed. Mother stays in the room
reading to him, so Mett and I have to take charge of
the household. I feel like Atlas with the world on my
shoulders.

June 12, Monday. - We had crowds of callers all the
morning, and some in the afternoon, which was rather
inconvenient, as Metta and I were busy preparing for
a little soirée dansante in compliment to our two
Marys. Some of the guests were invited to tea,
the others at a later hour, and refreshed between the
dances with cake, fruit, and lemon punch. I was in
the parlor from six to seven, helping Capt. Hudson
with his little dancing circle, and Gen. Elzey came in
to look on, and we fooled away the time talking till
I forgot how late it was, and Mary Semmes and the
captain [her brother-in-law, Spenser Semmes, son of
the famous Confederate sea-captain] came in before
I was dressed. I ran upstairs and scuttled into my
clothes as quick as I could. We had a delightful supper
and everybody seemed to enjoy it. About 25
were invited in all, and though it rained, only two
invitations were declined. We had a charming evening,
and everybody was in the best of spirits. In fact,
I don't think I ever saw people enjoy themselves more.
We had a few sets of the Lancers and one or two old-fashioned
quadrilles for the benefit of those who did

not dance the round dances, but the square dances
seem very tame to me, in comparison with a good
waltz or a galop. Capt. Semmes is delightful to dance
with. He supports his partner so well, with barely
the palm of his hand touching the bottom of your
waist. Metta and I are both charmed with him.
Instead of the quiet, reserved sort of person he seemed
when I first met him at the time of his marriage, he is
as jolly and full of fun as Capt. Irwin himself. When
I spoke to him about it, he laughed and said: "How
could you expect a man to be anything but solemn
at his own wedding?" I turned the tables by saying
it was the woman's time to look solemn afterwards.
We kept up a sort of mock warfare the whole evening,
and I don't know when I have ever laughed more.
You can be so free and easy with a married man and
let him say things you wouldn't take from a single one.
He and Cousin Bolling nicknamed me "Zephyr" because
they said my hair looked like a zephyr would if
they could see it. I knew they were poking fun at
me; for the damp had wilted my frizzes dreadfully,
and I put my hand up involuntarily, to see if there was
any curl left in them.

"You needn't be
uneasy," the captain said, "they
only need another good pinching. I have pinched
Paul's hair for her too often not to know the signs."

Then I said, what was
really true, - that I had never
used curling irons in my life.

your hair in curl papers." I asked if he had ever
played the part of Mr. Pickwick. He said no, but he
had been married long enough not to be fooled with
hot iron and yellow paper devices. "Oh, but it is
worse even than that sometimes," I acknowledged,
pulling out a little bunch of artificial frizzettes that I
use in damp weather to fill in the gaps of my own,
"they are 'false as fair.' "

He laughed at my frankness and proposed that we
should have another dance, but I made some excuse,
and slipped off upstairs to get a look at myself in
the glass. Between the damp and the dancing, my
frizzes were in a condition that made me look like a
Medusa's head. I fastened them down the best I
could with hairpins and hid the worst-looking under
a little cluster of rosebuds and then went back to the
parlor. I wish now that I had never cut off my front hair.
It has grown too long to frizz, and is still too
short to do anything else with, and as the false frizzettes
I have are made of Metta's and my hair mixed,
they won't stay curled in damp weather, and so are
not much of a help. I am tired of frizzing, anyway,
though it does become me greatly.

Mary Semmes has told the captain of my enthusiastic
admiration for his father, and he has promised to
give me his autograph. "I will give you a whole
letter," he said, "that he wrote me when I was a
youngster at school." I am delighted at the idea of
possessing such a souvenir of the great Confederate

It was two o'clock before our soirée broke up, and
everybody seemed loath to go, even then. I had trotted
around so much all day and danced so much at night,
that my feet ached when I went to bed, as if I were
a rheumatic old woman.

June 13, Tuesday. - Mary Wynn has gone home and
invited us to her house next Monday. Jule Toombs
has gone out with her, and several others are invited
to meet us there. The more I know of Mary, the better
I like her; she is so thoroughly good-hearted....

June 14, Wednesday. - We all spent the morning at
Mrs. Paul Semmes's and had a charming time. The
two Marys (Mary Semmes and Mary Day) both play
divinely, and made music for us, while the captain
made mirth. He showed me a beautiful collection of
seaweeds, and some interesting cartes de visite, among
them one of his father, the great Confederate admiral.
He showed me a page in his photograph book, which
he said he was saving for my picture, and I told him
he should have it when I get to be a "celebrated female."
He gave me two of his father's letters - one
of them about the fitting up of his first ship, the
Sumter.

June 15, Thursday. - This has been a day of jokes -
as crazy almost as if it were the First of April. It all
began by Capt. Hudson trying to get even with me
for fooling him about those colored cigarette papers

the other night, and laughing at him for his misunderstanding
of some complimentary remarks that Mary
Day had made about Sidney Lanier. After we had
each told everything we could think of to raise a laugh
against the other, he put on a serious face, and
began to hint, in a very mysterious way, that he
thought this house was a dangerous place. "There
are ghosts in it," he said, and then, to our utter amazement,
went on to tell, as if he were relating a genuine
ghost story, about Capt. Goldthwaite's encounter with
Cousin Liza the other morning, as he was coming out
of his room to take the early train. He evidently
didn't know, when he started, who the real ghost was,
but he saw at once, from our laughter, that it was
neither Cora nor Metta nor me, so he said it must lie
between Cousin Liza and Mary Day, and he would
find out by telling the story at the dinner table, and
watching their faces, which one it was. We thought
this would be a good joke, and it turned out even better
than we expected, when Cousin Liza walked right into
the trap, before he had said a word, by making a
mysterious allusion to her adventure which she thought
nobody but herself and Mett and me would understand.
Then, when she had betrayed herself as completely
as she could, the captain gravely told his ghost story.
But instead of laughing with the rest of us, she got
on her high horse and gave him a piece of her mind
that silenced him for that time as a story-teller. Everybody
wanted to laugh, and everybody was afraid to

speak, so we all looked down at our plates and ate as
hard as we could, in dead silence. I expected every
minute to hear somebody break out in a tell-tale
snicker, but we held in till dinner was over. Father
never allows anybody to make fun of cousin, if he
can help it, and he called Metta and me to him when
we got up from the table and gave us such a raking
over that we ran upstairs and buried our heads in
the pillows so that we could laugh as much as we
pleased without being heard. While we were lying
there, cousin came in and entertained us with such a
criticism of the captain and his ghost story that we
didn't dare to uncover our faces. Later in the afternoon,
when we came downstairs, Garnett proposed
that we should all go out in the grove and laugh as
loud as we chose. Henry and Cora joined us, and we
went to the seat under the big poplar, and when he
had arranged us all in a row, Capt. Hudson gave the
word of command: "Attention! Make ready!
Laugh " threw up his cap and shouted like a schoolboy.
I don't know what makes people so foolish, but
I laughed as I don't believe I ever did before in my
life, and all about nothing, too. We all whooped and
shouted like crazy children. But the mystery remains;
where did Capt. Hudson learn about that encounter?
I am sure Capt. Goldthwaite couldn't have told him,
because he was on his way to take the train when he
ran upon her in the entry. Wouldn't it be a comedy,
though, sure enough, if there should come an alarm of

fire in the night, and we would all have to run out in
our homespun nightgowns!

June 21, Wednesday. - We staid only two days at
the Wynns', because we wanted to get back home before
Mary Day leaves. She decided not to go till
Thursday, but couldn't stand the long drive into the
country, and we didn't want to let her go without seeing
her again.

We reached home just before dinner and found the
town agog with a difficulty between Charley Irvin and
the new commander, a New York counter-jumper
named Cooley, who now reigns over the land. Charley
had thrashed old Uncle Spenser for being impudent to
his mother, and the Yankee fined him fifteen dollars
for it. When Charley went to pay the money, he said
to the captain, in the midst of a crowd of men on the
square:

"Here is fifteen dollars you have made out of me.
Put it in your pocket; it will pay your board bill for a
month, and get you two or three drinks besides."

The captain turned to Mr. Barnett, who was standing
by, and asked: "What is the law in this country?
Is a man allowed to defend himself when he is insulted?"

"That depends on the nature of the insult," Mr.
Barnett answered.

"Do you think this one sufficient to warrant me in
knocking that man down?" inquired the Yankee.

"Yes!" cried Charley, "if you have any spirit in
you, you ought to knock me down. Just come and
try it. if you want a fight; I am ready to accommodate
you."

But it seems he wasn't "spoiling for a fight" after
all, and concluded that it was beneath the dignity of
a United States officer to engage in a street broil. *

Miss Kate Tupper is at
her brother's, completely
broken in health, spirit, and fortune. She was in Anderson
(S. C.) during the horrors committed there, and
Mr. Tupper thinks she will never recover from the
shock. All her jewelry was taken except a gold thimble
which happened to be overlooked by the robbers,
and her youngest brother was beaten by the villains
about the head and breast so severely that the poor boy
has been spitting blood ever since. Old Mrs. Tupper,
one of the handsomest and best-preserved old ladies of
my acquaintance, turned perfectly gray in five days,
on account of the anxieties and sufferings she underwent.
The two daughters of the old gentleman with
whom Cousin Liza boarded that summer she spent in
Carolina before the war, were treated so brutally that

Mr. Tupper would not repeat the circumstances even
to his wife. Oh, how I do hate the wretches! No
language can express it. Mr. Alexander tells me about
a friend of his in Savannah who has taught her children
never to use the word "Yankee" without putting
some opprobrious epithet before it, as "a hateful Yankee,"
"an upstart of a Yankee," "a thieving Yankee,"
and the like; but even this is too mild for me. I feel
sometimes as if I would just like to come out with a
good round "Damn!"

Father, I am glad to say, has not been appointed
provisional governor, so I can say what I please about
our new rulers without any disrespect to him. I know
he would have done everything in his power to protect
our people if he had been appointed, but at the same
time it would have been his duty to do many hard
things, from the obolquy of which he is now spared,
and his name will not be stained by being signed to
any of their wicked orders. My dear old father, in
spite of his love for the Union, is too honorable a man,
and too true a gentleman to be mixed up in the dirty
work that is to be done.

June 22, Thursday. - Mary Day and her brother left
for Macon, which leaves us with nobody outside our
own family, except Capt. Hudson. Our gentlemen
were from home nearly all day, attending a political
meeting at which father, Col. Weems, and Capt. Hudson
were to be the principal speakers. We had a great
deal of company after dinner, and a number of friends

to look on at the dancing lesson. Gen. Elzey, and
Capt. and Mary Semmes seemed greatly amused, and
I invited them to come and look on whenever they feel
like it. Our house is a great resort for Confederate
officers out of employment; when they are bored and
don't know what else to do with themselves, they are
sure of finding a welcome here, and I am only too glad
to do all in my power to entertain the dear, brave
fellows.

Henry came home to supper with his first greenback,
which he exhibited with great glee. "It is both a
pleasure and a profit," he said as he held up his dollar
bill in triumph. "I earned it by pulling a Yankee's
tooth, and I don't know which I enjoyed most, hurting
the Yankee, or getting the money."

Capt. Cooley has established a camp in Cousin Will
Pope's grove, and the white tents would look very
picturesque there under the trees, if we didn't know
they belonged to the Yankees. Our house is between
their camp and the square, so that they are passing
our street gate at all hours. We cannot walk in any
direction without meeting them. They have established
a negro brothel, or rather a colony of them, on
the green right in front of our street gate and between
Cousin Mary Cooper's and Mrs. Margaret Jones's
homes. Whenever Mett and I walk out in company
with any of our rebel soldier boys, we are liable to
have our eyes greeted with the sight of our conquerors
escorting their negro mistresses. They even have the

insolence to walk arm in arm with negro women in our
grove, and at night, when we are sitting on the piazza,
we can hear them singing and laughing at their detestable
orgies. This establishment is the greatest insult
to public decency I ever heard of. It is situated
right under our noses, in the most respectable part of
the village, on the fashionable promenade where our
citizens have always been accustomed to walk and
ride in the evenings. I took a little stroll with Capt.
Hudson a few evenings ago, and my cheeks were made
to tingle at the sight of two Yankee soldiers sporting
on the lawn with their negro "companions." There
is no way of avoiding these disgusting sights except by
remaining close prisoners at home, and Cousin Mary
and Mrs. Jones can't even look out of their windows
without the risk of having indecent exhibitions thrust
upon them. *

Charley says that Capt.
Cooley went to him this
morning and told him that he would have punished
old Spenser for his insolence to Mrs. Irvin if Charley
had complained to him, instead of taking the law into
his own hands. Charley told him that the protection
of his mother was a duty that he would delegate to no
man living while he had the strength to perform it.
"I'll knock down any man that dares to insult her,"

he said, "whether he is a runaway-rigger or a Yankee
major-general, without asking your permission or anybody
else's. My life isn't worth much now, anyway,
and I couldn't lose it in a better cause than defending
my blind mother." Bravo, Charley!

I hope the Yankees will get their fill of the blessed
nigger before they are done with him. They have
placed our people in the most humiliating position it
is possible to devise, where we are obliged either to
submit to the insolence of our own servants or appeal
to our Northern masters for protection, as if we were
slaves ourselves - and that is just what they are trying
to make of us. Oh, it is abominable!

June 23, Friday. - We are going to form a dancing
club for grown people, to meet once or twice a week at
our house, as soon as father is well enough. He is
quite feeble still, and has been ever since that sudden
attack the other night when Mary Wynn was here. I
feel very anxious about him and wish there was not
any such thing in the world as politics, for they are a
never-ending source of warfare in the house, and I
believe that has as much to do with his sickness as
anything else. Poor, dear old father, he can't help
loving the old Union any more than I can help loving
the Confederacy. But even if he is a Union man, he is
an honest and conscientious one, and was just as
stanch and outspoken in the hottest days of secession
even more so than he is now. I will never forget
that night when the bells were ringing and the town

illuminated for the secession of Georgia, how he darkened
his windows and shut up the house, and while
Mett and I were pouting in a corner because we were
not allowed to take part in the jubilee, he walked up
and down the room, and kept saying, as the sound of
the bells reached us: "Poor fools, they may ring their
bells now, but they will wring their hands - yes, and
their hearts, too, before they are done with it!" It
has all come out very much as he said, but somehow,
I can't help wishing he was on the same side with the
rest of us, so there wouldn't be all this quarreling and
fretting. We are all stirred up now about that public
meeting yesterday. The whole town is in a ferment
about some resolutions that were passed. I can't learn
much about them, but it seems father was active in
pushing them through. One of them, thanking the
Yankee officers for their "courteous and considerate
conduct," was particularly odious. There was a hot
discussion of them in the courthouse and Garnett was
so angry that he left the room and wouldn't go back
any more. The returned soldiers held an opposition
meeting after dinner before the courthouse door, and
declared that instead of repenting for what they had
done, they were ready to fight again, if they had the
chance, and they say that if these objectionable resolutions
are published, they will pass a counter set.
Henry came home furious that father should have been
mixed up in any such business, but he didn't know
much more about what happened than I do. He

wouldn't go to either meeting because he said he didn't
approve the first one, and he didn't want to show disrespect
to father by taking part in the second, or letting
anybody talk to him about it. Henry is like me; he
can't talk politics without losing his temper, and sometimes
he gets so stirred up that he goes off to his room
and won't come to the table for fear he might forget
himself and say something to father that he would be
sorry for. Serious as it all is, I can't help wanting
to laugh a little sometimes, in spite of myself, when I
see him begin to swell up and hurry out of the way,
as if he had a bomb in his pocket and was afraid it
would go off before he could get out of the house.
But it is dreadful; I wonder what we are all coming to.
There may have been some use in talking and wrangling
about what to do, in the beginning, when the
choice was open to us, but now, as Garnett says, right
or wrong, we are all in the same boat, and the whole
South has got to sink or swim together. We are like
people that have left a great strong ship and put out
to sea in a leaky little raft - some of us because we
didn't trust the pilot, some, like father, because they
had to choose between their friends on the raft, and
comfort and safety aboard the big ship. Now, our
poor little raft has gone to the bottom, run down by
the big ship, that in the meantime, has become a pirate
craft. But father can't see the change. He grew old
on the big fine ship and longs to get back aboard on
the best terms he can. And this seems to be about

all the choice that is left us; to make such terms as
we can with the pirate crew and go into voluntary
slavery, or resist and be thrown into chains. I don't
suppose it will make much difference in the end which
course we take, but it has always been my doctrine
that if you have got to go to the devil anyway, it is
better to go fighting, and so keep your self-respect.

June 25, Sunday. - I feel like Garnett looks - in a
chronic state of ennui. Poor fellow, he is as unhappy
as he can be over the wreck of our cause and the ruin
of his career.

The latest act of tyranny is that handbills have been
posted all over town forbidding the wearing of
Confederate uniforms. We have seen the last of the
beloved old gray, I fear. I can better endure the gloomy
weather because it gives us gray skies instead of blue.

June 27, Tuesday. - I have been trying to take advantage
of the few days we have been without company
to look after my own affairs a little, but have not
even found time to darn my stockings. We have a
constant stream of visitors, even when there is nobody
staying in the house, and so many calls to return that
when not entertaining somebody at home, Metta and
I are making calls and dropping cards at other people's
houses.

I went to see Belle Nash after dinner, before going
to the bank to dance with the children. She invited
me to go driving with her, but I declined, and walked
to the bank with Jim Bryan, who spied me as I was

leaving the Randolph house and bolted after me. He
was full of news and told me more than I could have
found out for myself in a year, from the boil on his
finger to the full and complete history of the old striped
rag that the Yankees have raised on the courthouse
steeple, where my lone star once proudly floated. I
consider that flag a personal insult to Cora and me,
who made the first rebel one ever raised in Washington.
And such a time as we had making it, too, for
we had to work on it in secret and smuggle it out of
sight every time we heard any one coming, for fear
father might find out what we were at and put a stop
to our work. But we got it done, and there it floated,
while the bells were ringing for secession, just as that
horrid old Yankee banner floats there now, the signal
of our humiliation and defeat. Poor, dear, old father,
my conscience hurts me to think how I have disobeyed
him and gone against his wishes ever since the war
began. We are all such determined Rebs that I sometimes
wonder how he can put up with us as well as he
does - though we do have awful family rows sometimes.
We barely missed one this evening, when I
came in and commenced to tell the news, but luckily
the supper bell rang just in the nick of time, though
father was so upset he wouldn't say grace. That old
flag started it ail. We children were so incensed we
couldn't hold in, and father reproved us for talking
so imprudently before the servants. I said I hated
prudence - it was a self-seeking, Puritanical sort of

virtue, and the Southerners would never have made
the gallant fight we did, if we had stopped to think of
prudence. Mother turned this argument against me
in a way that made me think of the scene in our house
on the night when that first rebel flag was raised. We
try to avoid politics at home, because it always brings
on strife, but a subject of such vital and general interest
will come up, in spite of all we can do. I am afraid
all this political turmoil has something to do with
father's illness, and my heart smites me. I don't want
to be disrespectful to him, but Henry and I are born
hot-heads, and never can hold our unruly tongues. In
the beginning, I think a great many people, especially
the old people, felt, way down in the bottom of their
hearts, just as father did. Cora says that her grandpa
was ready to crack anybody on the head with his walking
stick that talked to him about dissolving the Union,
and she never dared to open her mouth on the subject
in his presence, or her father either, though he and all
the rest of them believe in Toombs next to the Bible.
I felt differently myself then. Before Georgia seceded,
I used to square my opinions more by father.
I could see his reasons for believing that secession
would be a mistake, and wished that some honorable
way might be found to prevent it. I loved the old
Union, too - the Union of Washington and Jefferson
- as much as I hate the new Union of compulsion and
oppression, and I used to quarrel with Henry and Cora
for being such red-hot secessionists. Even after the

fight began, though my heart and soul were always
with the South, I could still see a certain tragic grandeur
in the spectacle of the Great Republic struggling
desperately for its very existence. On looking back
over the pages of this diary, I cannot accuse myself of
unreasonable prejudice against the other side.

Its pages are full of criticisms of our own people
all through the war. I could see their faults, and I
would have done justice to Yankee virtues, if they had
had any, but since that infamous march of Sherman's,
and their insolence in bringing negro soldiers among
us, my feelings are so changed that the most rabid
secession talkers, who used to disgust me, are the only
ones that satisfy me now. And I am not the only
moderate person they have driven to the other extreme.
Not two hours ago I heard Garnett say that if they
had shown one spark of magnanimity towards us since
we gave up the fight, he would be ready to enter their
service the first time they got into a foreign war.
"But now," he says, "I would fight in the ranks of
any army against them." *

The next war they get
into, I think, will be against
the negroes, who are already becoming discontented
with freedom, so different from what they were taught

to expect. Instead of wealth and idleness it has
brought them idleness, indeed, but starvation and
misery with it. There is no employment for the thousands
that are flocking from the plantations to the
towns, and no support for those who cannot or will not
work. The disappointed ones are as much incensed
against their "deliverers" as against us, and when
they rise, it will not be against either Yankee or Southerner,
but against the white race. Unfortunately,
many of them have been drilled and made into soldiers.
They have arms in their hands, and when the time
comes, will be prepared to act the part of the Sepoys
in India, thanks to Northern teaching. At the beginning
of the war I was frightened out of my senses,
when I read the frightful story of Lucknow and Cawnpore,
for fear something of the kind would happen
here, but the negroes had not been corrupted by false
teachings then, and we soon found that we had nothing
to fear from them. Now, when I know that I am
standing on a volcano that may burst forth any day, I
somehow, do not feel frightened. It seems as if nothing
worse could happen than the South has already
been through, and I am ready for anything, no matter
what comes. The strange part of the situation is that
there was no danger when all our men were in the

army and only women left to manage the plantations.
Sister never even locked her doors at night, though
there was often not a white man within three miles of
her; but as soon as the Yankees came and began to
"elevate the negro" by putting into his ignorant, savage
head notions it is impossible to gratify, then the
trouble began, and Heaven only knows where it will
end. A race war is sure to come, sooner or later, and
we shall have only the Yankees to thank for it. They
are sowing the wind, but they will leave us to reap the
whirlwind. No power on earth can raise an inferior,
savage race above their civilized masters and keep them
there. No matter what laws they make in his favor,
nor how high a prop they build under him, the negro
is obliged, sooner or later, to find his level, but we
shall be ruined in the process. Eventually the negro
race will be either exterminated or reduced to some
system of apprenticeship embodying the best features
of slavery, but this generation will not live to see it.
Nothing but experience, that "dear teacher" of fools,
will ever bring the North to its senses on this point,
and the fanatics who have caused the trouble will be
slow to admit the falsity of their cherished theories
and confess themselves in the wrong. The higher
above his natural capacity they force the negro in their
rash experiments to justify themselves for his emancipation,
the greater must be his fall in the end, and the
more bitter our sufferings in the meantime. If insurrections
take place, the United States government is

powerful enough to prevent them from extending very
far, but terrible damage might be done before they
could or would send succor. Our conquerors can protect
themselves, but would they protect us, "rebels and
outlaws"? Think of calling on the destroyers of Columbia
for protection! They have disarmed our men,
so that we are at their mercy.

They have a miserable, crack-brained fanatic here
now, named French, who has been sent out from somewhere
in New England to "elevate" the negroes and
stuff their poor woolly heads full of all sorts of impossible
nonsense. Cousin Liza was telling us the other
day what she had heard about him, how he lives among
the negroes and eats at the same table with them, and
she got so angry before she finished that she had to
stop short because she said she didn't know any words
bad enough to describe him. Mett told her that if she
would go out and listen the next time Emily got into a
quarrel with some of the other negroes, she wouldn't
have to consult the dictionary, and Cora said if we
would wait till Henry came home, she would call him
up and let him say "damn" for us, and then we had
to laugh in spite of our indignation.

But I am going to stop writing, or even thinking
about politics and everything connected with them if I
can. I wish I had a pen that would make nothing
but blots every time I start the subject. It is an evil
one that drags my thoughts down to low and mean
objects. There is an atmosphere of greed and vulgar

shopkeeper prosperity about the whole Yankee nation
that makes the very poverty and desolation of the
South seem dignified in comparison. All the best people
in the Border States - Kentucky, Missouri, Maryland,
and poor little Delaware - were on our side, while
the other kind sided with the Yankees. This is why
all the soldiers and refugees from these States are so
nice; the other sort staid at home to make money,
which people with vulgar souls seem to think will make
them ladies and gentlemen....

June 28, Wednesday. - Tom Cleveland and Jim
Bryan spent the morning with us, and Jim says the
young men of the village are trying to contrive some
way of getting to the top of the courthouse steeple at
night and tearing down the Yankee flag, but there is
no possible way save through the building itself, where
the garrison is quartered, and they keep such close
watch that there is no chance to carry out the design.

Arch has "taken freedom" and left us, so we have
no man-servant in the dining-room. Sidney, Garnett's
boy, either ran away, or was captured in Virginia. To
do Arch justice, he didn't go without asking father's
permission, but it is a surprise that he, who was so
devoted to "Marse Fred," should be the very first of
the house servants to go. Father called up all his
servants the other day and told the men that if they
would go back to the plantation in Mississippi and
work there the rest of the year, he would give them
seven dollars a month, besides their food and clothing;

but if they chose to remain with him here, he would
not be able to pay them wages till after Christmas.
They were at liberty, he told them, either to stay with
him for the present, on the old terms, or to take their
freedom and hire out to somebody else if they preferred;
he would give them a home and feed them till
they could do better for themselves. In the altered
state of his fortunes it will be impossible for him to
keep up an establishment of twenty or thirty house
servants-and children, who are no longer his property.
The poor ignorant creatures have such extravagant
ideas as to the value of their services that they are
sadly discontented with the wages they are able to get.
There is going to be great suffering among them, for
Southerners will not employ the faithless ones if they
can help it, and the Yankees cannot take care of all the
idle ones, though they may force us to do it in the
end. I feel sorry for the poor negroes. They are not to
blame for taking freedom when it is brought to their
very doors and almost forced upon them. Anybody
would do the same, still when they go I can't help feeling
as if they are deserting us for the enemy, and it
seems humiliating to be compelled to bargain and haggle
with our own servants about wages. I am really
attached to father's negroes, and even when they leave
us, as Alfred, Arch, and Harrison have done, cannot
help feeling interested in their welfare and hoping they
will find good places. None of ours have ever shown
a disposition to be insolent, like some of those I see

on the streets. Arch was perfectly respectful to the
last, and did his work faithfully, but then he left us
in a sneaky way, slipping off just before dinner-time,
without telling us good-by, or saying a word to anybody
but father, as if he was ashamed of himself.
Mammy says that the real cause of his departure is
the fear that his wife will come after him from the
plantation, and as he is about to marry Mrs. Pettus's
Betsy, that would be an inconvenience. I wonder if
the Yankees will force them to observe the marriage
tie any better than they have done in the past. I don't
think it exactly consistent with the honor of freemen
to have wives scattered about, all over the country.
Isaac refuses to go back to the plantation because he
has a new wife here and an old one there that he don't
want. He says he "ain't a-goin' to leave a young
'oman and go back to an old one." Mammy tells me
all this gossip about the other negroes. She is not
going to leave us till she can hear from Jane and Charlotte,
who are supposed to be in Philadelphia. She
says she will stay with us if she can't go to them, and
more could not be expected of her. It is not in human
nature that fidelity to a master should outweigh maternal
affection, though mammy has always been more
like a member of the white family than a negro. Except
Uncle Osborne, Big Henry is the most shining instance
of fidelity that has come under my observation.
He was hired at the salt works in Alabama, but made
his escape with Frank and Abram and Isham, and all

of them worked their way back here to father. As
soon as he found that father wanted him to go back
to the plantation but had no money to pay his way,
Henry packed his wallet and marched off, saying he
could work his way. The other three went also, and
father got some soldiers who were going in that direction
to take them along as their servants. "Well done,
good and faithful ones."

In black contrast to Big Henry's shining example,
is the rascality of Aunty's fallen saint, old Uncle Lewis.
He is an old gray-haired darkey who has done nothing
for years but live at his ease, petted and coddled and
believed in by the whole family. The children called
him, not "Uncle Lewis," but simply "Uncle," as if he
had really been kin to them. Uncle Alex had such
faith in him that during his last illness he would often
send for the old darkey to talk and pray with him, and
as Uncle Lewis is a great Baptist, and his master was
an equally stanch Methodist, they used to have some
high old religious discussions together. A special
place was always reserved for him at family prayer,
which Uncle Alex was very particular that all the servants
should attend, and "brother Lewis" was often
called on to lead the devotions. I have often listened
to his prayers when staying at Aunty's, and was
brought up with as firm a belief in him as in the Bible
itself. He was an honored institution of the town -
scarcely less so than old Uncle Jarret, the old shouting
sexton of the Methodist church. But now see the debasing

effects of the new régime in destroying all that
was most good and beautiful in these simple-hearted
folk. Uncle Lewis, the pious, the honored, the venerated,
gets his poor old head turned with false notions of
freedom and independence, runs off to the Yankees
with a pack of lies against his mistress, and sets up a
claim to part of her land! Aunty found him out and
turned him off in disgrace. She says that he shall
never put his foot on her lot again. She knows, however,
that he is in no danger of suffering for anything,
because his sons have excellent trades and can take
good care of him. One of them, our Uncle Osborne,
is as fine a carpenter as there is in the county. He
was one of the most valuable servants father owned.
He, too, has taken freedom now, but he is not to blame
for that. He stood by us when we most needed him,
and now he has a right to look out for himself. Father
says he shall never suffer for anything as long as he
lives and has a roof over his own head.

I don't know what is to become of the free negroes.
Every vacant house in town is packed full of them, and
in the country they are living in brush arbors in the
woods, stealing corn from the fields and killing the
planters' stock to feed on. The mongrel population
on the green in front of our street gate has increased
until all the tents and hovels are teeming like a pile
of maggots. They are very noisy, especially at night,
when they disturb the whole neighborhood with their
orgies. They are growing more discontented every

day, as freedom fails to bring them all the great things
they expected, and are getting all manner of insolent
notions into their heads. Last Sunday a Yankee soldier,
with two black creatures on his arms, tried to
push Mr. and Mrs.----(name illegible) off the sidewalk
as they were coming home from church. Mr. E.
raised his cane, but happily for him, a Yankee officer
stepped up before he had time to use it and reproved
the soldier for his insolence.

June 29, Thursday. - Cousin Jim Farley and Mr.
Cullom arrived from Montgomery to look after the
cotton father has been keeping stored for them here.
They brought us all manner of nice things - candy,
raisins and almonds, canned fruits, fish, sardines,
cheese, and other foreign luxuries, including a basket
of Champagne. I never had such a feast in my life
before - at least, I never enjoyed one so much because
I never was so starved out. It is the first time in four
years that I have tasted any candy except home-made,
and generally sorghum, at that. But the best of all are
two beautiful new hats, in the very latest fashion, that
Cousin Jim brought to Mett and me. We were so
delighted that we danced all over the house when not
standing before the glass to admire ourselves. We
dressed up in our new finery and went to the bank,
where Mrs. Elzey and the general and Capt. Semmes
were sitting on the porch, and we dazzled them with
our glory.

breakfast, to ask us to join in getting up a barbecue
they want to have on the 6th of July, for the purpose
of showing their contempt for the 4th, which the
negroes and Yankees are going to celebrate. But
while we sympathize with their intentions we think it
best to have nothing to do with the barbecue, as it is a
public affair, and as father's Union sentiments are so
well known, it might look like a want of respect for
him. Garnett, Capt. Semmes, and the Elzeys all advise
against it, too, and I agree with them, that simply
to ignore the Yankees is more dignified than any positive
action. The Irvin Artillery are at the head of the
project and we didn't want to hurt the feelings of the
boys by giving them a direct refusal, so we just told
them that we couldn't promise to serve on their committee
without first consulting our father and brothers.

July 1, Saturday. - Our gentlemen, with about 12
others in the village, gave a barbecue complimentary
to Capt. Stephen Pettus, who has entertained them so
often. Barbecues, both public and private, are raging
with a fury that seems determined to make amends for
the four years intermission caused by the war, but I
think there ought to be another intermission, and a
good long one, after the results of the carousal to-day.
I never did believe in these entertainments for men
only; they are so apt to forget themselves when there
are no ladies about to keep them straight. The whole
party came back to town with more liquor aboard than
they could hold, except Eddie Morgan; he was the only

sober one in the whole crowd.... It really would
have been comical if it hadn't turned out so seriously.
Our Beau Brummel came blundering home just before
supper, while I was talking with some visitors on
the piazza, with just sense enough left to know that he
couldn't trust himself. He tried very hard not to betray
his condition, and spoke with such a precision and
elaboration of utterance that I could hardly keep from
laughing outright. When the visitors had gone he
began to protest, in language worthy of Sir Piercy
Shafton, that he was not drunk - he never did such an
ungentlemanly thing as that - but only a little tight,
and then asked in a tone of the most exaggerated
courtesy, like a courtier addressing his sovereign, if I
would not have a brush and comb brought out to him
on the piazza, so that he could make himself presentable
before mother saw him! It was all so absurd that
I fairly roared, in spite of myself. I lit a candle and
started him upstairs to his room where he managed,
somehow or other, to get himself in hand by suppertime.
Garnett came straggling in just before we got
up from the table and was so afraid of betraying himself
that he never once opened his mouth to say a word
to anybody. We can always tell when he has made a
slip overboard by the rigid silence he maintains. It is
as full of meaning as the "beau's" overstrained
courtesy.

But the serious part of the business is Henry's exploit.
The whole affair might have passed off as a

joke, but for that. He came home too far gone for
anything except to be put to bed, but before making
that proper disposition of himself, he went round to
the hotel, where Capt. Cooley and the other officers of
the garrison are boarding, and "cussed out" the whole
lot. Garnett, and Anderson Reese, who had taken
charge of him, did their best to hold him back, and
apologized to the commandant, explaining that Henry
was in liquor, and they hoped no notice would be taken
of his irresponsible utterances. But the Yankee saw
that they were pretty far gone on the same road themselves,
and I suppose did not regard the apology any
more than he ought to have regarded the insult, under
the circumstances. To make matters worse, when
they had at last gotten Henry quiet and were carrying
him off home, as they were passing through the square,
he happened to spy a party of Yankee soldiers on a
corner, and stopped to pay his respects to them in language
which made them furious. Garnett tried to
appease them by explaining his brother's condition,
which was sufficiently apparent of itself to anybody
not looking for an excuse to annoy a "d - d"
rebel.

Capt. Cooley is reported to have said that if the
barbecue projected for the purpose of throwing
contempt on the Fourth does take place, he will
leave this post and send a garrison of negro troops
here. If he carries out the threat I hope our
citizens will resist, be the consequences what they

July 2, Sunday. - Henry's escapade threatens to turn
out a very serious affair. Soon after breakfast there
came an anonymous note to father saying that Capt.
Cooley had started for Augusta on the morning train,
but had left orders with one of his lieutenants to arrest
Henry immediately and send him to jail. Father went to
see the officer and prevailed on him to put off the arrest
for one hour, till Henry could find friends to stand
bail for him. This saved him from being sent to jail,
but I fear it may go hard with him in the end. Any
Southerner would have dropped the matter at once
after finding that Henry was in his cups and not
responsible; or if he chose to resent the insult, would
have demanded satisfaction in the proper way, like a
gentleman; but this Yankee shopkeeper prefers to defend
his honor with the long arm of the law. Our
returned soldier boys have bedeviled him in a thousand
ways that he can't take up, just like we school children
used to worry our Yankee teachers before the war, and
he is no doubt glad to have an opportunity to make an
example of somebody. I am afraid the weight of his
wrath will fall heavy on poor Henry, unless father can
have influence enough to save him. Henry did wrong,
undoubtedly, and he knows it. He is so mortified at
the thought of his indiscretion that he hadn't the face
to show himself even to the family till late this evening,
and then he looked so sheepish and guilty that we

all felt sorry for him and tried to make him feel more
comfortable by acting as if we didn't know of what he
had done. After all, such accidents are liable to happen
when men get off by themselves, with no ladies
present to act as a restraint on them. Anybody else
might have done the same thing, and we can all sympathize
with him anyway, in wanting to "cuss out"
the Yankees. Garnett and Capt. Hudson pretend to
be on the stool of repentance too, but every now and
then they forget their rôle of "bons garcons" and
begin to tell some of the funny things that were done
by the "other fellows." *

July 3,
Monday. - The boys came again to beg us
to attend their barbecue on the 6th, but after the
recent experiences in our family, I don't think anybody
can blame us for preferring to keep quiet
awhile.

Cousin Liza says people
are talking dreadfully about
that meeting at the courthouse the other day. None
of us knows exactly what did happen. The boys
(Henry and Garnett) wouldn't stay to hear, and we

are all afraid to ask father, because some of us would
be sure to say something that would start a family
row. If it wasn't for Cousin Liza and her little black
umbrella, that go poking into everything, we should
never have known what a tempest was stirring outside.
But I don't believe anybody in Washington would say
anything bad about father; they all know him too well.
I wish Mr. Cotting and Mr. Akerman were both a
thousand miles away. They are his chief cronies, and
I shouldn't be surprised if they were at the bottom of
the whole thing.

July 4, Tuesday. - I was awakened at daybreak by
the noisy salutes fired by the Yankees in honor of the
day. They had a nigger barbecue out at our old picnic
ground, the Cool Spring, where they no doubt found
themselves in congenial society, with their black
Dulcineas. They have strung up one of their
flags across the sidewalk, where we have to pass
on our way to the bank, so I shall be forced to walk
all around the square, in future, to keep from going
under it.

of our forefathers' folly by keeping themselves
shut up at home - except those of us who celebrated
it very appropriately by attending a funeral. Mary
Wynn's mother died yesterday and was brought to
town this afternoon for interment. Mrs. Ben Jordan
and Mrs. Wilkerson came in with the cortège and
dined at our house, and Mett and I couldn't do less
than go with them to the funeral. It was three o'clock,
and the heat and dust nearly killed me, but as the old
lady had to die anyway, I am glad she furnished such
a lugubrious celebration for the "glorious Fourth."
The Yankees gained it no favor, waking people up before
day with their vexatious salutes. Every good
rebel, as he turned over in bed, gave them and their
day a silent execration for disturbing his slumbers.
I never heard such hideous noises as they made -
but I suppose it was only proper that the reign of
pandemonium should be celebrated with diabolical
sounds.

Our negroes all went to the mongrel barbecue, so
Mett and I had most of the housework to do, and were
tired out when the day was over.

July 7, Friday. - The rebel "cue" came off
yesterday, in spite of Capt. Cooley's threats to
stop it, but Capt. Semmes tells me it was hot enough
to roast a salamander, and nobody enjoyed it very much.

The Toombs girls spent the morning with us. John
Ficklen dropped in and we kept tolerably cool in our

large, airy parlor, but I have been too ailing and languid
all the week to take much interest in anything.
After dinner I arranged my hair in a new
style and crawled out to the dancing circle. The
Elzeys called after tea, but I could not interest myself
even in them. I am really ill - so weak that I can
scarcely talk, and with all my fondness for company,
it taxes my powers to entertain the visitors who
call.

The Yankees have pulled down the shanties in front
of our street gate at last, and turned the negroes out
of doors. They are living as they can, under trees and
hedges, and some of them have no shelter but an old
blanket stretched over a pole, or a few boards propped
against a fence. It is distressing to see the poor
wretches in such a plight, but what is to be done?
The Yankees have taken them out of our hands, and
we Southerners are not to blame for what happens to
them now. I hate to go into the street, because in
doing so I have to pass that scene of wretchedness and
vice. They live by stealing - and worse. Everybody
in the neighborhood suffers from their depredations.
The common soldiers associate with them, but the
officers do not, under the present administration. They
seem to have no scruples about beating and ill-using
them if they trouble their sacred majesties. One of
their favorite punishments is to hang offenders up by
the thumbs, which I think is a horrible piece of barbarism.
It would be much more merciful, and the

negroes would understand it better, if they would give
them a good whipping and let them go. I am almost
as sorry for these poor, deluded negroes as for their
masters, but there is indignation mingled with my pity.
There are sad changes in store for both races, who
were once so happy together. I wonder the Yankees
do not shudder to behold their work. My heart sickens
when I see our once fat, lazy, well-fed servants
reduced to a condition as miserable as the most
wretched of their brethren in Africa, and the grand
old planters, who used to live like lords, toiling for
their daily bread. Maj. Dunwody is trying to raise a
little money by driving an express wagon between
Washington and Abbeville, and Fred writes from
Yazoo City that he found one of his old neighbors, the
owner of a big plantation in the Delta, working as a
deck-hand on a dirty little river steamer, hardly fit
to ship cotton on.

Capt. Cooley has returned from Augusta, and they
say he is going to deal hardly with Henry. The young
men of the county take so much interest in the affair,
and express such sympathy with him, that there are
threats of a general row.... Two ladies of our family
have been insulted by Yankee soldiers. One of them
met Cousin Liza alone in the street as she was coming
home late this afternoon, and said, with an insolent
laugh: "How do you do, my dear?" Another ran
against Metta on the sidewalk and almost knocked her
down. We don't dare to speak of these things where

the gentlemen of the family can hear us, for fear they
might knock somebody down, and cause fresh trouble.
It wouldn't do for any of this family to raise another
row while Henry's case is hanging in the balance. We
have to submit to everything put upon us, or humiliate
ourselves still more by appealing... *

July 14,
Friday. - Making calls all the morning with
Mrs. Elzey, and came home to dinner very tired and
hungry. The general and Mrs. Elzey are really going
to leave on Monday with Capt. Hudson, if they can
raise the money.

Col. Coulter Cabel, an
army friend of Garnett's, en
route from Richmond to Augusta, is stopping with us.
He was a dashing cavalry officer in the dear old rebel
army, but does not look very dashy now, in the suit of
seedy black resurrected from heaven knows where, to
which the proscription of the gray and the exigencies
of a Confederate pocketbook have reduced him. It
is a droll thing to see the queer costumes our Confederate
officers have brought to light out of old chests
and lumber rooms, since they have had to lay
aside their uniforms, but I like them better in the
meanest rags to which they can be reduced than I
did even in the palmiest days of brass buttons and
gold lace.

Gen. Elzey took tea with
us and the Lawtons called
afterwards to see Col. Cabel. Capt. and Mary

Semmes, Ed Morgan, Will Ficklen, and a number of
others, came round in the face of a big thunder cloud,
to dance. We had a merry evening and kept it up till
12 o'clock. The general danced round dances for the
first time in five years, and chose me for his partner
every time, which I took as a great compliment. He
said he liked my way of dancing. I was agreeably
surprised that the evening should have been such a
success, for the threatening weather kept away nearly
half our club members, and I was so disappointed at
not being able to get my new white dress from
Mrs. Crenshaw that I didn't expect to enjoy myself
at all.

July 16, Sunday. - The Elzeys' last day in Washington,
and our last pleasant evening together. They
took tea with us, and we tried hard to be cheerful, but
the thought that we shall probably never all sit together
again around that cheery old table, where so many
friends have met, came like a wet blanket between us
and mirth. The captain and Cousin Boiling are going
to make their home in New Orleans. The Elzeys return
to Baltimore.

When Touchy's turn came to say good-by,
he didn't seem to know exactly how far to go, but
Metta told him that if he grew up to be as nice as he
is now, she would want to kiss him and couldn't, if
we ever met again, so she would take the opportunity
now - and so we gave the handsome boy a smack all
round, and sent him off laughing. The general took

leave earlier than usual, and with sad hearts we saw
his soldierly figure in the well-known white army
jacket, moving, for the last time, down the front walk.
"General," I said, as we parted at the head of the
steps, "I feel if I am shaking hands with the Confederacy;
you are the last relic of it that is left us." ... [MS. torn.]

CHAPTER VII

THE PROLOGUE TO RECONSTRUCTION

EXPLANATORY NOTE. - I
have no apology to make for
the indignation and resentment that fill the remaining
pages of this record. The time has come, I believe, when
the nation's returning sense of justice has outgrown the
blind passions engendered by war sufficiently to admit
that the circumstances narrated fully justified the feelings
they awakened. These events mark the beginning of that
deplorable succession of blunders and outrages that has
bequeathed us the most terrible legacy of the war - the
race problem; a problem which, unless the common sense
of the nation shall awaken, and that right early, to the
simple fact that a horse and an ox, or an elephant and an
antelope, cannot pull together in the same harness, will
settle itself before another generation has passed in a
tragedy compared with which the tragedy of the Civil
War was child's play.

July - ,.... - The Toombs girls invited us to
meet Mr. Van Houten, a blind musician from Eufaula,
this afternoon. He played beautifully, but wanted
you to be always going into raptures over him. He
is so sensitive, that he can't bear to be reminded of
his blindness in any way, and I couldn't help admiring
one very tactful thing Jenny did to spare him.

He is accustomed to have people shake hands with
him when they are introduced, as that is the only form
of greeting he can perceive, and when Jenny introduced
Mary Lane, he put out his hand as usual, for
her to take. Mary wasn't noticing, and failed to respond,
so Jenny quietly slipped her own hand into his,
and he never knew the difference. I wonder, though,
he didn't detect the subterfuge, for the touch of blind
people is very sensitive, and Jenny's hand is so exquisitely
soft and delicate that there are not many others
in the world like it. I tried to imitate Jenny's considerateness
by talking about subjects where blind people
can feel at home, and when the rest of the company
rushed to the windows to see the negroes pass on their
way to hear the New England apostle, Dr. French,
give his lecture, I tried to keep him from feeling that
he was losing anything, by pretending that I would
much rather stay inside and listen to the music. But
all the time I was craning my neck, to see what was
going on. The negroes looked very funny in their
holiday attire, going to hear "the Frenchman," as
they call this missionary from the Freedman's Bureau,
expound to them the gospel according to Phillips, Garrison
& Co. The meeting was held in Mr. Barnett's
grove, much against his will, it is said, but he didn't
think it wise to refuse, and the negroes flocked there
by thousands. I could hardly have believed there were
so many in the county. The Yankees tried to get
father's grove for their precious conventicle, but to my

delight he refused, on the ground that he didn't want
his grass trampled on,... [MS. mutilated; two
pages missing.]

...We have great fears of a negro garrison
being sent here, and then, Heaven have mercy on us!
The white Yankees are getting so rude that ladies are
afraid to walk on the streets alone. Corinne Lawton
and Mrs. Matilda Dunwody have both been insolently
ordered off the sidewalk by Yankee soldiers, to make
way for their negro companions, and it is said some
of them have expressed a determination to insult every
Southern woman they meet. The only thing they allege
against us is that we are such d - d rebels we
take no more notice of them than if they were dogs,
and will not even look toward them when they pass -
as if we hadn't the right to turn away from sights that
hurt our eyes!

July 21, Friday. - Garnett returned at two o'clock
this morning from Abbeville, bringing a wounded soldier
in the carriage with him, and parting messages
from our friends. Father sent them as far as Abbeville
in his carriage, and from there they expect to
make their way somehow back to their homes. We
had no callers till late in the afternoon, which was a
great relief, for I feel used up, and the weather is too
hot for anything but to sit undressed in my own room.
I go in déshabille most of the time, now that the house
is free of guests, keeping a dress and coiffure ready to
fling on at a moment's notice, when visitors are seen

coming up the avenue. I think it is dreadfully vulgar
to go dowdy about the house, but what is one to do
when one has hardly clothes enough to be respectable
when one goes out, and no money to buy any more?
And we have to do so much hard work, too, now, that
our clothes would not last a month if we were to wear
them around all the time, when there is no one here.
It is too hot to wear clothes, anyway. I sometimes
wish that old Mother Eve had not set the fashion for
fig leaves. An opportune thunder storm, the only one
we have had since Monday, came up just in time to
cool the air for us and catch Dr. French in the midst
of his daily ceremonies with the negroes. I was sorry
for the poor darkeys to get their Sunday clothes spoilt,
but I hope "the Frenchman" will catch a cough that
will stop that pestiferous windpipe of his and follow
him to - his last resting place, wherever that may be.
These hypocritical Puritans love to nurse and coddle
themselves and enjoy the fat of the land, but they will
find no worshiping Mrs. Wellers here to feed their
"shepherd" on pineapple rum and toast. The negro
sisters adore him, but they are too poor to feast him,
except on what they can pilfer, and Southern cupboards
are, as a rule, too empty just now to furnish fat
pickings. The poor dupes say they believe he is Jesus
Christ - "anyhow, he has done more for them than
Jesus Christ ever did." They don't know what horrid
blasphemy they are talking, and so are not to be held
responsible. My feeling for them is one of unmixed

pity. Take it all in all, they have behaved remarkably
well, considering the circumstances. The apostles of
freedom are doing their best to make them insolent and
discontented, and after awhile, I suppose, they will
succeed in making them thoroughly unmanageable, but
come what will, I don't think I can ever cherish any
very hard feelings towards the poor, ignorant blacks.
They are like grown up children turned adrift in the
world. The negro is something like the Irishman in
his blundering good nature, his impulsiveness and improvidence,
and he is like a child in having always had
some one to think and act for him. Poor creatures,
I shudder to think of what they must suffer in the
future, and of what they are going to make this whole
country suffer before we are done with them. The
streets of Washington are crowded all the time with
idle men and women who have no means of support.
They are loitering in the shade of every hedge and
tree, and gossiping in every cabin doorway. Where
they lodge, Heaven only knows, but how they are fed,
the state of our orchards and cornfields can testify.
Capt. Cooley hung up two by the thumbs the other
day, for robbing father's orchard, but the discipline
was of no avail, for we have not gathered a full-grown
peach or pear this season. Roasting-ears are pleasant
food, and to be had for the - taking; our early corn
gave out before we had used it a week. Ben Jones
shot a negro the other night, for stealing in Mr. Waddey's
garden, and it is a miracle that he escaped being

put in jail. Fortunately the negro wasn't hurt.
Negroes may kill white men whenever they please, provided
the white man wears not a blue coat, but woe to
the white man that touches a negro!...

That murder case into which Gen. Wild and Dr.
French have been prying for the last week has wrought
these apostles up to a state of boundless indignation,
and father is afraid it will bring their vengeance upon
the town. He is counsel for the defense, and I don't
think he feels any too much respect for his clients,
though it is his duty, as their lawyer, to make out the
best case he can for them. He don't say much about
the case because conversation on such subjects nearly
always brings on a political row in the family, and we
are all so afraid of starting a fracas that we are constrained
and uneasy whenever anything touching on
politics, no matter how remotely, is mentioned. However,
from the little I have heard father tell, I am
afraid this murder is a very ugly affair. It seems his
clients are accused of having killed an old negro woman
because she left her master's plantation to go off and
try the blessings of freedom. She certainly was an
old fool but I have never yet heard that folly was a
capital offense. One of the men is said to have shot
her, while the other broke her ribs and beat her on the
head with a stone till she died. They left her unburied
in a lonely place, and the body was not discovered till
ten days after. In spite of the stench, father says
Gen. Wild examined the body with ghoulish curiosity,

even pulling out the broken ribs and staring at them.
And all the while the old woman's son stood looking
on with stolid indifference, less moved than I would be
over the carcass of a dead animal. Gen. Wild was
bred a doctor and didn't seem to mind the most sickening
details. Father says he would rather have the
sharpest lawyer in Georgia as his opposing counsel
than these shrewd, painstaking Yankees. Capt.
Cooley was sent out to collect evidence, and even
brought back the stone which was said to be the one
with which the poor old creature was beaten on the
head. There is only negro evidence for all these horrors,
and nobody can tell how much of it is false, but
that makes no difference with a Yankee court. Father
thinks one of the men is sure to hang, and he has very
little hope of saving the other. The latter is a man of
family, and his poor wife is at Mrs. Fitzpatrick's hotel,
almost starving herself to death from grief. She has
left her little children at home by themselves, and they
say that when the Yankees went there to arrest their
father, they were so frightened that two of them went
into convulsions; they had heard such dreadful things
about what the Yankees had done during the war. The
younger of the two accused men is only twenty years
old, and his poor old father hangs around the courtroom,
putting his head in every time the door is opened,
trying to catch something of what is going on. He
is less privileged than our dog Toby, who follows
father to the courthouse every day, and walks about

the room as if it belonged to him, smelling at the Yankees,
and pricking up his ears as if to ask what business
they had there. Father says he would not, for
millions, have had such a case as this come under the
eyes of the Yankees just at this time, for they will believe
everything the negroes say and put the very worst
construction on it. Brutal crimes happen in all countries
now and then, especially in times of disorder and
upheaval such as the South is undergoing, but the
North, fed on Mrs. Stowe's lurid pictures, likes to believe
that such things are habitual among us, and this
horrible occurrence will confirm them in their opinion.

Another unfortunate affair took place the other
night, in Lincoln County. The negroes were holding
a secret meeting, which was suspected of boding no
good to the whites, so a party of young men went out
to break it up. One of the boys, to frighten them,
shot off his gun and accidentally killed a woman. He
didn't mean to hurt anybody, but the Yankees vow
they will hang the whole batch if they can find them.
Fortunately he has made his escape, and they don't
know the names of the others. Corrie Calhoun says
that where she lives, about thirty miles from here, over
in Carolina, the men have a recipe for putting troublesome
negroes out of the way that the Yankees can't
get the key to. No two go out together, no one lets
another know what he is going to do, and so, when
mischievous negroes are found dead in the woods,
nobody knows who killed them. All this is horrible, I

think. If they want to bushwhack anybody, why
don't they shoot Yankees? The poor negroes don't
do us any harm except when they are put up to it.
Even when they murdered that white man and quartered
him, I believe pernicious teachings were responsible.
Such things happen only in places where the
negroes have been corrupted by the teachings of such
wretches as this French and Wild.

I shall never feel anything but friendship towards
father's "freedmen," though most of the males have
left us. I do not blame them for trying to make something
for themselves. They will have no "ole marster"
now to look out for them when they are sick and
old, so they must learn to take care of themselves.
They have lost the advantages of slaves, they must gain
those of freemen. It is the Yankees, the accursed
Yankees, who have done all the mischief and tried to
set them against us. There has been more insolence
and crime among them since that rascal French came
here with his pernicious teachings, than in all the 200
years since they were brought into the country. His
escort of negro troops flirt around with the negro
women - a ridiculous travesty of what used to take
place among ourselves when Washington was filled
with Confederate officers and their brave men. Our
Cinthy has two admirers among them who call on her
every night, and she generally makes her appearance
to wait on the tea-table with her face whitened with
flour - contributions being levied on our biscuit allowance

for the purpose of beautifying her complexion.
My bedroom windows overlook the back yard, and
when Emily's house is open, as it always is in summer,
every word spoken there is distinctly audible in my
room. It is as good as an evening at the Negro Minstrels.
I am often regaled with scraps of conversation
and pert witticisms that are such absurd parodies
upon what takes place in our own drawing-room that
they seem almost like a deliberate attempt to burlesque
Metta and me. After all, there is a great deal that
is farcical mixed up with all this tragedy we are living
through. Dr. French has begun his reforms by giving
out that he will remarry all negro couples who have
not been lawfully married already by a Christian
minister. He worded his notice in the most sensational
style, like the news columns in the New York
"Herald," and ordered the white ministers of Washington
to read it out from their pulpits. Mr. Tupper
refused, but the other two complied. No private property
could be obtained for the accommodation of the
apostle and his followers - not that anybody objected
to the harmless farce of remarrying the negroes, but
nobody wanted their grounds polluted by the spoutings
of such a creature. His very presence in a town where
his first footfall would once have been his death warrant,
is a sufficient disgrace.

After fruitless efforts to secure father's, Cousin Will
Pope's, and Mr. Barnett's groves, he had to take the
negro cemetery for the scene of his performances. Accordingly,

about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, the candidates
for double matrimonial honors went trooping
out to their cemetery on the Tan Yard Branch to be
married over again. If there is anything in omens,
never were nuptials more inauspicious. The ceremonies
were interrupted by a thunder storm that drenched
the composite bridal party and all the spectators - the
"shepherd" taking care to shelter himself under a big
umbrella that one of his worshipers held over him.
Mammy, who tells me all the negro news, says that
thirty-three couples were married. Among them was
our Charity, who six years ago was lawfully married
in the Methodist church here, to Mr. Waddy's Peter.
I remember how father joked Peter, when he came to
ask for Charity, about having him for a "nigger-in-law,"
but now, Charity has taken to herself Hamp, one
of father's plantation hands - a big, thick-lipped fellow,
not half as respectable looking as Peter - but there
is no accounting for taste. Several other marriages
of the same "double" kind took place, which would
bring the saintly doctor under the laws against bigamy,
if anybody cared enough about the matter to prosecute
him. I was amused at Charity when she came home
in the evening. She went about her work as usual,
but when I stepped into the back porch to get some
water, she stopped in the midst of it to tell me that
she now had two names, like white folks.

It sounded so like "amputation" that I could hardly
keep a straight face.

"And how did Hamp get all that name?" I asked.

"His grandfather used to belong to a Mr. Tatom,"
she answered, "so he took his name for his entitles.
Dr. French tole us we mus' all have surnames now, an'
call our childern by 'em, an' drop nicknames."

I notice that the negroes seldom or never take the
names of their present owners in adopting their "entitles,"
as they call their surnames, but always that
of some former master, and they go as far back as
possible. It was the name of the actual owner that
distinguished them in slavery, and I suppose they wish
to throw off that badge of servitude. Then, too, they
have their notions of family pride. All these changes
are very sad to me, in spite of their comic side. There
will soon be no more old mammies and daddies, no
more old uncles and aunties. Instead of "maum
Judy" and "uncle Jacob," we shall have our "Mrs.
Ampey Tatoms," and our "Mr. Lewis Williamses."
The sweet ties that bound our old family servants to
us will be broken and replaced with envy and ill-will.
I am determined it shall not be so with ours, unless
they do something to forfeit my respect. Father befriends
his men in every possible way. When they
fail to get work elsewhere, he tells them they can always
come to him and he will give them food and

shelter till they can do better. He tries to find situations
for them, and they in return seem as fond of us
all as ever. Father's negroes always were devoted to
him, and well they might be, for he was a good, kind
master to them. Emily's brother, Arch, comes to see
us often, and takes Emily's children in hand and gives
any of them a switching that need it. He is hired to
Dr. Hardesty, but says that if "Marse Fred" can
afford to keep him, he will stay with him when he
comes back to Georgia. This state of things is about
the best we can expect under the new régime, but there
is no telling how long the Yankees will let well enough
alone. The servants who are still with us are lazy,
but not insolent, though the teachings of French and
Wild will no doubt soon make them so. Mammy says
that Dr. French told them in one of his speeches that
some of them would be called upon to rule over the
land hereafter - a pretty strong hint at negro suffrage.
Capt. Cooley is reported as saying: "Damn French!
I had trouble enough with the negroes before he came,
and now they are as mad as he is." Bravo! little
Yank; I really begin to respect you.

July 24, Monday. - We had a dancing party at Dr.
Robertson's in the evening. Most of the young men
go to parties fully armed. The parlor mantelpiece at
the bank was covered with pistols brought there by our
escorts, and one of our amusements, between dances,
was to examine them and learn to cock them. Some
of them were very pretty, with silver and ivory mountings.

Garnett made us go and return by back streets
in order to avoid, as much as possible, meeting with
negroes and Yankees. A man of honor can hardly be
expected not to shoot on the spot any wretch who
should dare to insult a lady under his charge, and the
consequences of reckless firing have been made so
apparent that prudent people think it best to avoid
difficulties by keeping out of their way as much as we
can. The negroes are frequently out very late at
night, attending the meetings of a society they have
formed, called the "Sons of Benevolence,"
for the protection of female virtue (!) and Heaven - or
rather the other place - only knows what else. But
every housekeeper knows that the gardens and henroosts
in the neighborhood suffer on the nights when
they hold their meetings. Only two of their acts have
become known to me, and these are not very creditable
to the morals of a religious society conducted by
religious people. They arraigned Mrs. Gabe Toombs's
Chloe for "keeping company with a Yankee," but
when she declared that she "hadn't never kep' company
with nobody but Joe Barnett" (who has another
wife, if not two or three of them) they let her off.
They also reported Mrs. Margaret Jones to the commandant,
as suffering a sick man (in her employ) to
lie dying of neglect, and subjected her to the annoyance
of a visit from one of the army surgeons, while to
my certain knowledge she has had a physician to see
him every day, and nurses him as faithfully as if he

were her own servant. Dr. French has attended some
of their meetings, and if any mischief is afoot, no
doubt he is at the bottom of it.

July 25, Tuesday. - The Dunwodys had a conversation
party in the evening, and I enjoyed it only tolerably.
There were not gentlemen enough to go round,
and that is always awkward. Capt. Semmes was not
there, either, but Anderson Reese, who is almost as
nice, supplied his place. As Jenny wasn't there, he
took me as second best, and we spent half the evening
tête-à-tête. He is delightful, in spite of being in love
with another girl, and still wears a gray coat with brass
buttons. I felt as if carried back to the old Confederate
days whenever I looked at him. I came home at
1 o'clock, dissatisfied with myself, as I always am after
a conversazione, because I say so many foolish things
when I talk too much. I couldn't sleep, either, after
going to bed, because Mett went off to her own room
next to father's and left me alone in the end room,
with that awful garret door between me and everybody
else in the house. I am like the little boy that
said he wasn't afraid to go through the graveyard
alone at night, he was just ashamed. I don't believe
in ghosts, but they make me just as nervous as if I
did - and that big garret is such a horrible, gloomy
place.

July 27, Thursday. - Seabrook Hull and Brewer
Pope called at 5 o'clock this afternoon, which put me
out of temper because I am never up so early this hot

I am always so frightened and uneasy in the streets
after dark that it greatly detracts from the pleasure
of going out. We can generally avoid the Yankees
by taking the back streets, but the negroes swarm in
every by-way and rarely condescend to give up the
sidewalk, so we have to submit to the indignity of being
crowded off by them. There was a time when such
conduct would have been rewarded with a thrashing -
or rather, when such conduct was unheard of, for the
negroes generally had good manners till the Yankees
corrupted them by their "evil communications." It
is sad to think how things are changing. In another
generation or two, this beautiful country of ours will
have lost its distinctive civilization and become no
better than a nation of Yankee shopkeepers.

July 28, Friday. - One continued stream of notes
and messengers and visitors all day long. I hardly
had time to eat my breakfast. I spent most of the
morning nursing John Moore's family, who are all
sick with the measles.

We had a dance at Mrs. Margaret Jones's in the
evening, and I don't think I ever enjoyed anything
more in my life. I nearly danced my feet off, in spite
of the hot weather. Between dances, I enjoyed a long
tête-à-tête with my old Montgomery friend, Dr. Calhoun,
who looks so much like Henry. He is a Cousin
of Corrie and Gene, who are visiting the Robertsons.

He came over from Carolina yesterday, and called to
see me as soon as he got here, but I was out. It was
really a pleasure to see him again....

Gen. Wild has left off his murder cases for the
present, and turned his attention to more lucrative
business - that everlasting bank robbery. Some ten
thousand dollars have been recovered from negroes in
whose hands it was found, and about a dozen of the
most respectable citizens of the county are imprisoned
in the courthouse under accusation of being implicated.
Among them is the wife of our old camp-meeting
friend, Mr. Nish (Dionysius) Chenault, who entertained
Mrs. Davis and her party at his house out on
the Danburg road as she was on her way here from
Abbeville. She (Mrs. Chenault) has a little young
baby with her, and they have imprisoned Mr. Chenault's
sister, too, and Sallie, his oldest daughter. * The
people of Washington wanted to entertain the ladies
in their homes and give bail for their appearance to
stand trial, but that bloodhound, Wild, would not permit
them to leave the courthouse. He tied up Mr.
Chenault by the thumbs and kept him hanging for an
hour, trying to extort from him treasure that he did

not possess. He is a large, fat man, weighing nearly
three hundred pounds, so the torture must have been
excruciating. His son and brother were tied up, too,
the latter with his hands behind him, and he was suffered
to hang till they were stretched above his head,
and he fainted from the pain. And all this on the
lying accusation of a negro! They even hung up a
negro man, Tom, because he would not swear to a
pack of lies inculpating his master. And the Yankees
pretend to be a civilized people! And these precious
missionaries of the gospel of abolitionism have come
out from philanthropic Boston to enlighten us benighted
Southerners on our duty to the negroes, while
they take a sterling old Wilkes county planter and
treat him worse than we would do a runaway negro!
Such diabolical proceedings have not been heard of
since the days of King James and his thumbscrews.

Father has suggested that I might make some money
by writing an account of this robbery business for
some sensational Northern newspaper, and I mean to
try it. I don't suppose any of them would publish
the real truth, even if I could get at it, which seems
almost impossible, but I will do my best, and it will be
worth while, if I can only get a chance to let the
Yankees know how mean they are, even though I do
have to soften it down. Father is one of Mr. Chenault's
counsel, and can tell me all about that part of
the business. I will make a sensational article, with
big headlines, and if the thing succeeds, I can make a

good many other salable pieces out of what I see going
on around me every day, especially about the "freedmen"
and their doings. I will write as if I were a
Yankee myself, and in this way get a better chance to
hit the wretches a few good hard raps over the head
that they would not take from a Southerner.

July 29, Saturday. - I invited Emma Reed and Miss
Ann Simpson to tea, and a terrible thunder storm
came up that kept them here all night. Marsh went to
a children's party in the afternoon, and came home
sick. Garnett spent the day at a barbecue, with the
usual result, so between them and the thunder, which
always frightens me out of my wits, I was not in a
very lively mood. I spent the morning making tomato
catsup. My eyes are getting so bad that I can hardly
write half a page without stopping to rest them. Well
might St. Paul pray to be delivered from this "Thorn
in the flesh."

July 30, Sunday. - The latest sensation is the confiscation
of the Toombs residence. Gen. Wild went
up there to-day and turned Mrs. Toombs out in the
most brutal manner. He only allowed her to take her
clothing and a few other personal effects, peering into
the trunks after they had been packed, and even unrolling
Mrs. Toombs's nightgowns to see if anything
"contraband" was concealed in them. A little pincushion
from her workstand which she had given to
Cora as a keepsake, he jerked out of Ed Morgan's
hand and cut open with his penknife to see if jewels

were not concealed in it. He searched the baggage of
Bishop Pierce, who was at that moment in the Methodist
church, preaching one of the best sermons I ever
listened to, and made all kinds of sarcastic remarks
about what he found there. He suffered Ed Morgan's
trunk and a basket of fine peaches that Mrs. Toombs
had gathered for Cora, to come to our house unmolested,
as a special favor to Judge Andrews. I don't
know what the old brute would think of Judge Andrews
if he knew that in his house were stored at this
moment Mrs. Toombs's family portraits and a good
part of her silver plate. He has so little magnanimity
himself that he will never suspect such a thing as the
existence of personal esteem between political opponents,
as father and Gen. Toombs have nearly always
been. Cora, who was at Mrs. Toombs's with a number
of other friends while all this was going on, says
that his manner was as hard and unfeeling as a rock;
his negro sergeant actually seemed ashamed of him.
Neither tears, hatred, nor contempt could move him;
he actually seemed to glory in his odious work. He
is a little mean-soured edition of that champion persecutor,
the Duke of Alva, and so we call him, for he
would make an auto da fé of the last one of us poor
rebels if he could. It is necessary to have some nickname
to use when we talk before the servants, and to
speak very carefully, even then, for every black man
is a possible spy. Father says we must not even trust
mammy too far. Never were people subjected to a

more thorough and complete system of espionage, and
by such irresponsible agents. The least bit of careless
speaking is liable to get one into trouble. John Ficklen
was arrested and fined merely for saying that he
wished the bullet that hit Wild's arm had taken off his
confounded head. Father says he is rather a handsome
man, but I would sooner face the devil in his
worst shape. He is one of those close, secret, cold-blooded
villains who keeps his own counsel, just like
Alva of old, when he had a new piece of cruelty to
perpetrate against the poor Hollanders. Father thinks
he has something behind, of a still more astounding
nature than anything he has yet done, and tried to
sound him, but it was "no go." Old French, like the
vain fool of a fanatic that he is, blabs everything he
knows; father says he saw to the bottom of him in
two hours. We have not quarreled much about politics
in the last few days, for when it comes to a situation
like this, father is too true at the core not to take
part with his own people. He may love the Union
as much as he will, but he is too much of a gentleman
to have any part or parcel in the transactions of men
like these. Such Pharisaical hypocrites as Wild and
French make Capt. Cooley seem almost an angel of
light. We are actually beginning to regard this Yankee
officer as a friend and protector. He undoubtedly
has behaved like a gentleman in every respect. While
Gen. Wild and Dr. French make a business of dining
two or three times a week with a party of negroes at

old Uncle Spenser's, Capt. Cooley never associates
with either of them any more than he can help, and
does his best to make the negroes behave themselves.
He says that the two newcomers have given him more
trouble than all the rebels he ever had to deal with, and
has been heard to "damn" them soundly. Garnett
says he is a real good fellow, and my heart has softened
so that I am not ashamed to think well even of a Yankee,
like him. The young men of the town invited
him to their barbecue yesterday, and I am glad of it.

Since the Toombses have been turned out of their
house, Ed. Morgan has come to stay with us. Mrs.
DuBose is very near her confinement, but fortunately
she has friends enough with whom she can find shelter,
and Gen. DuBose is on his way home. His bodyservant,
who was severely wounded in one of our last
battles while trying to carry his master some breakfast,
is at the confiscated house, very ill, and the family are
reduced to such straits that they can make no provision
for him. This seems to distress Mrs. Toombs more
than her own situation. Dr. Lane promised her to
render the negro medical service, and if Gen. Wild was
really as fond of the negroes as he pretends to be, he
would provide the poor fellow with everything else
he needs - but he leaves that to their rebel masters -
those cruel slaveholders whose chief delight was to
torture and murder their negroes.

July 31, Monday. - The best thing that has ever happened
since the world began! Old Wild arrested!

He had just established himself comfortably in Mrs.
Toombs's house, where he announced his intention of
opening a negro school in the basement, reserving the
first floor for himself and his gang. One of the
teachers had come, and Dr. French was in high feather.
The general himself was reveling in power and wickedness.
He had removed his female prisoners from
the courthouse to an upper room on the square, where
they were confined on a diet of army rations. Two
men were arrested for looking at them as they stood at
a window, under suspicion of making signals, and
Dick Walton was also arrested as "guilty of being suspected."
A Reign of Terror was upon us, and things
were looking very squally indeed, with this agent of
a tribunal as tyrannical as Robespierre's Jacobins, riding
over us rough-shod. Men dared not speak without
looking over their shoulder to see if a spy was in
hearing. Wild, cold and hard as adamant, seemed
fairly to glory in making himself hated - but thank
Heaven, his day is over. In the midst of these arbitrary
proceedings, just as Dr. Walton had been placed
under arrest, the afternoon train came in with a fresh
squad of Yankee soldiers, under the command of
splendidly caparisoned officers. Our hearts failed at
the sight, for thus far, in all our experience, a fresh
arrival of Yankees has meant a fresh train of woes.
Capt. Semmes was spending his last evening with us,
before leaving Georgia, and the whole family assembled
on the piazza, as the cavalcade passed our

street gate, speculating as to what new calamity was
about to befall us. But when father came in a little
later and told us the real object of their visit, we
clapped our hands and shouted for joy. Cora danced
a pirouette, Marsh turned a series of somersaults the
whole length of the piazza, and father himself laughed
with a right good will. Henry came home in the
midst of it all and told us that when he first heard the
news down town, he went into the back room of Burwell
Ficklen's office, shut the windows, locked the door,
and threw his hat up to the ceiling three times. When
our first burst of joy had subsided, we, too, began to
look round to see if the negroes were all out of the way,
and then proceeded to vent our feelings. The downfall
of these precious apostles of Abolitionism will have
a good effect upon the negroes, whom they have all but
excited to insurrection. Dr. French has been cheating
and imposing upon them all the time, but the poor,
ignorant creatures can see nothing wrong in him whom
they call their "white Jesus," - little knowing what
horrid blasphemy they are uttering. It has become a
fashion among them to be married by him, though he
takes the last cent they have, as a fee. I thought something
of that kind must be at the bottom of his anxiety
to "settle the marriage relations" of the negroes.
One woman left her husband and married another
man, like Charity did Peter. Husband No. 1 went to
Dr. French while he was performing the ceremony,
and objected to the proceeding, but No. 2 had the

woman and the fee on his side, so he carried the day.
I believe this whang-nosed fanatic is a more despicable
creature than even Gen. Wild; he is one of the sleek,
unctuous kind that tries to cover his rascality under the
cloak of religion, but his - (word illegible) comes out
too strong for that much patched garment to hide.

Father fears that our rejoicing over the downfall
of Wild is vain. He says that such a wily rascal
would hardly commit himself as he has done, without
good authority. He may have orders from a higher
power than Gen. Steadman, of which that officer is
ignorant, and if this be the case, he may not remain
long under arrest. Those people at Washington are
capable of anything, and if he should be turned loose
upon us again, his desire for vengeance will make him
worse than ever, and then, woe to the Toombses and
Chenaults, whose complaints to Gen. Steadman caused
his arrest.

While we were at supper there was heard a noise
precisely like the firing of a cannon, but a rumbling
sound that followed immediately after, convinced us
it was only a peal of thunder. After we got up from
the table, Henry took me aside and told me that it
really was the old cannon, which some young harebrains
among the boys had determined to fire off for
joy at "Alva's" arrest. The rumbling of thunder
which accompanied it seems almost like an interposition
of Providence to save our young rebels from the
possible consequences of their imprudence. Anyway,

After supper, Capt. Semmes, the last of our war
friends, took his leave. He sets out for New Orleans
on Wednesday, but will return in a month or two for
his family. "I expect Gen. Wild will have you up by
the thumbs next," he said to me laughing, as he moved
away. "You and Miss Metta and Mary would make
a pretty trio, with your three red heads."

"I hope," I answered, "that my new shoes will
come before I am strung up, for I believe the operation
is very exposing to the feet."

It seems unfeeling to jest about such things, and yet,
we all do it. I suppose the very desperateness of our
situation makes us reckless. Even father's face was
one broad sunbeam when he told us of "Alva's" arrest,
and he never shuts us up for abusing him - only
looks round to see if the doors are closed and none of
the servants within hearing. For all he is such a
strong Union man, I am sure that he detests the brute.
It does my heart good to hear him tell how he took
advantage of the only legal mistake the old sleuth
hound made in that murder case, and thus will probably
save the neck of his client. I am like everybody
else; I want these men to be punished if they are guilty,
but not by an illegal, secret military tribunal, nor convicted
on negro evidence. Capt. Cooley says they give
more weight to negro evidence than to that of white
people.

Aug. 1, Tuesday. - Wild's negro bodyguard
left this morning, and it is said we are to be rid of the
tyrant himself to-morrow. Col. Drayton is reported
as saying that he would not like to be in Wild's place
when he gets back to Augusta, and bitterly censures his
conduct. There seems to be some sense of decency
left among the Yankee army officers, even yet. This
Col. Drayton is evidently a gentleman. Bless his
heart, I feel as if I should really like to shake hands
with him. Our town is full of Yanks, and new ones
coming in every day. The last to arrive is a staff
officer * from the War Department.
Something of
importance must be on foot, but of course we, who are
most nearly concerned, know not what. We see the
splendidly-equipped officers dashing about the streets,
and think bitterly of the days when our own ragged
rebels were there instead, but we never have time to
think long before the storm bursts over our heads,
somebody is plunged into the abyss, and present misery
leaves no time for vain regrets.

I sincerely pray that no more negro troops may be
sent here. Those of Wild were exceedingly insolent,
and came near raising a riot at the dépot just before
they boarded the cars. They cursed the white citizens
who happened to be there, threatened to shoot them,
and were with difficulty restrained by the Yankee officers
themselves from making good their threat. Our

white men were compelled to submit to this insolence,
while hundreds of idle negroes stood around, laughing
and applauding it. Father came home in a state of
indignation to which I have rarely seen him wrought
up. He says it was the most alarming and exasperating
scene he has yet witnessed. Contrary to everybody's
expectation, the negro troops are less disposed
to submit to discipline than the white ones. One
would think that after the plantation discipline to
which they have been accustomed, there would be no
difficulty with them in the army, but the Yankee officers
say they are the most turbulent and insubordinate
troops in the service. With Southern men to command
them they would soon be made to know their
place, but the Yankees have spoiled them by making a
hobby of them. They never did know how to treat
negroes, anyway, and if they don't mind, they will
raise a spirit which it will be out of their power to lay.
The negro troops are said to be better fed, better
clothed, and better paid, than any others in the army,
and there is a good deal of jealousy already between
them and their white comrades. Serves them right.
I wish every wretch of them had a strapping, loud-smelling
African tied to him like a Siamese twin, and
that Wild had one on both sides. Oh, how I hate
them! I will have to say "Damn!" yet, before I am
done with them.

Aug. 2, Wednesday. - Wild and French have gone
their way; the Reign of Terror in our town is over

for the present. If the Yankees cashier Wild, it will
give me more respect for them than I ever thought it
possible to feel. He is the most atrocious villain extant.
Before bringing the Chenaults to town, he
went into the country to their home, and tortured all
the men till Mr. Nish Chenault fainted three times
under the operation. Then he shut up the two ladies,
Mrs. Chenault and Sallie, in a room, to be searched by
a negro woman, with a Yankee officer standing outside
the door to make sure that it was thoroughly done.
When the ladies had stripped to their last garment,
they stopped and objected to undressing any further,
but were compelled to drop it to the waist....
Disappointed at not finding any other plunder, the
Yankees took their watches and family jewelry, and
$150 in gold that Mr. Chenault had saved through the
war. I have this from Mrs. Reese, who got it from
Sallie Chenault herself, after they were released.
After searching the ladies, they kept them in the woods
all day, while they searched and plundered the house.
Miss Chenault says she doesn't suppose there was
much left in the house worth having, when the Yankees
and negroes had gone through it. I believe all
the ladies have now been released by Col. Drayton,
except Mrs. Nish Chenault, who is detained on a
charge of assault and battery for slapping one of her
own negro women who was insolent to her! How are
the tables turned! This robbery business furnishes a
good exposition of Yankee character. Each one that

meddles with it goes off with some of the gold sticking
to his fingers, and then gets into trouble with the
others, who are afraid there will be none of it left for
them. Let a Yankee alone for scenting out plunder.

Aug. 4, Friday. - Capt. Cooley went out of town on
some business or other, and it seemed as if the negroes
and common soldiers would drive the rest of us out
after him. I went to walk with Mary Semmes in the
afternoon, and every lady we met on the street had
had some unpleasant adventure. A negro called to
Cora, in the most insulting manner, from an upper
window on the square, and two drunken Yankees ran
across the street at Mary and me and almost knocked
us down, whooping and yelling with all their might.
We were glad to hurry back home, as fast as our feet
would carry us. Things are coming to such a pass
that it is unsafe for ladies to walk on the street. The
town is becoming more crowded with "freedmen"
every day, and their insolence increases with their
numbers. Every available house is running over with
them, and there are some quarters of the village where
white people can hardly pass without being insulted.
The negroes are nearly all idle, and most of them live
by stealing. I don't know what is to become of them
in winter, when fruits and vegetables are gone. Sometimes
my sympathies are very much excited by the poor
creatures, notwithstanding their outrageous conduct -
for which the Yankees are more to blame, after all,
than they. The other day I met a half-grown boy with

all his worldly goods in a little wallet slung over his
shoulder. He was a poor, ignorant, country darkey,
and seemed utterly lost in the big world of little Washington.
He stopped at our street gate as I passed out,
and asked in a timid voice, almost breaking into sobs:
"Does you know anybody what wants to hire a boy,
mistis?" I was so sorry for him that I felt like crying
myself, but I could do nothing. The Yankees
have taken all that out of our hands, and deprived us
of the means of caring for even our own negroes.
There is nothing for it but to harden our hearts against
sufferings we never caused and have no power to prevent.
Our enemies have done it all; let them glory
in their work.

Aug. 5, Saturday. - It rained like fury all the afternoon,
and I finished my account of the bank robbery
which I intend trying to sell to one of the New York
papers. I did my best to get at the exact truth, and
father did all he could to help me, so I think it is, in
the main, about as clear a statement of the facts as can
be got at. Gardiner Foster came over from Elberton
and spent the evening with us. Somebody is always
sure to come when I neglect to change my dress in
the evening.

Mary Semmes and I took a long walk together before
breakfast, and met neither Yankees nor negroes.
The "freedmen" are living up to their privileges now,
and leave the early morning hours to us "white trash."
Willie Robertson told me about an adventure of his

that might have strayed out of a "New York Ledger"
story. Returning home late the other night, from an
evening call, he found a note under the front door,
addressed to himself, in blood. Opening it, he found
inside only a drop of blood! His sisters are frightened
out of their wits about it, but Willie thinks that
it is only a trick of some darkey he has offended, trying
to "cunjur" him. Negroes are given to such
modes of vengeance, and one could easily have gotten
some Yankee, or other low person, to write the address
for him. Willie says it is in the cramped hand of an
illiterate person, such as people of this sort might be
expected to write.

Aug. 7, Monday. - Dr. Hardesty left for Baltimore
and we sent off a big mail to be posted by him there -
letters to the Elzeys and other friends.

Garnett brought Taz Anderson and Dr. McMillan
home to dinner. It seemed just like the quiet antebellum
days, before Washington had become such a
thoroughfare, and our house a sort of headquarters
for the officers of two Confederate armies. It was
almost as if the last four years had been blotted out,
and all of us transported back for a day, to the time
when Garnett was a rising young lawyer just beginning
his career, and used to fill the house with his clients
and friends. A sense of grinding oppression, a deep
humiliation, bitter disappointment for the past, and
hopelessness for the future, and the absence of many
well known faces that used to meet us, is all that

marks the change betwixt the now and the then, so
far as our social life is concerned. The pleasant
strangers the war brought here have nearly all gone
their ways, and Washington is becoming nothing but
a small, dull country village again. Everything relating
to the dear old Confederate times is already so
completely dead and buried that they seem to have
existed only in imagination. I feel like one awaking
from some bright dream, to face the bitter realities of
a hard, sordid world. The frightful results of its
downfall are all that remain to tell us that there ever
was a Southern Confederacy. Oh, for the glorious
old days back again, with all their hardships and heroism,
with all their "pomp and circumstance of glorious
war!" - for war, with all its cruelty and destruction,
is better than such a degrading peace as this.

Aug. 9, Wednesday. - I took a horseback ride before
breakfast, and learned the "catch trot," which is a
great help in riding a rough-going horse. We had a
dance in the evening, which I did not enjoy much.
...I have sent my account of the bank robbery to
try its fate with the "New York World." In a
private letter to the editor, I explained that I wrote as
if I were a Yankee sojourning at the South, in order
to make some of the hard things it was necessary to
say in telling the truth, as little unpalatable as possible
to a Northern public. What a humiliation! But it
gave me the satisfaction of hitting a few hard knocks
that I could not have ventured in any other way. I

could say: "We have been guilty of" so and so, where
it would not do to say: "You have been guilty."
*

Aug. 11,
Friday. - A charming dance at Mrs. Ben
Bowdre's. Jim Bryan and Mr. Berry went with Mett
and me. Garnett took Mary. She had her head
dressed with a huge pile of evergreens that made her
look like Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane. She
never did have any taste in arranging her hair.

Aug. 18,
Friday. - Just returned from a visit to
Woodstock, where I had a perfectly charming time.
Ella Daniel wrote for Minnie Evans to bring out a
party of us to spend a few days at her house, and fortunately
left the selection of the guests to Minnie. Nine
of us went out Thursday morning and came back this
afternoon. We left Washington immediately after
breakfast, and reached Woodstock just in time for
dinner, after a jolly ride of eighteen miles, with plenty
of good fruit and melons to eat on the way. Ella and
her brother, Cicero, were our entertainers. They have
a large, elegant house, with two beautiful front parlors
and a wide hall that can be thrown together by means
of sliding doors - a glorious place for dancing.
Mamma and Papa Daniel have both departed this life,
there were no maiden aunts or married sisters to interfere,
and we young people had everything our own
way. It rained all the first afternoon, so there could

be no riding, but we had no reason to regret that, with
those nice rooms for dancing. We danced half the
night and then went to our rooms and talked away the
rest of it. We danced again before breakfast, played
cards, ate fruit, and idled about the house till dinnertime,
after which we started back home, though Ella
and her brother did their best to keep us another day,
but we thought it would be an imposition, as there
were so many of us, though their hospitality was equal
to anything, and they entertained us delightfully. The
dinners, especially, were charming - none of the awkwardness
and constraint one so often finds where people
have come together to make a business of enjoying
themselves. Ed Morgan and his cousin, Tom
Daniel, joined us at Woodstock and helped on the fun.
The Daniels are as thick as peas there,- - and as nice.
But pleasant as it all was, the best part of our trip was
the journey home. Willie Robertson put Buck, our
driver, on his horse, and he and I mounted the box
and drove home that way. It was a delightfully cool
seat - so high and airy; I felt as if I were flying - and
Willie did make the horses fly. We laughed and sang
rebel songs, and the whole party were as jolly and as
noisy as if we had been half-tight. We stopped at
several country houses on the road to get water, or
peaches and melons, and sometimes to have a chat with
the people.

On reaching home, I found that sister had arrived, with
the children. There was a big mail, too, with

letters from our friends in Richmond and Baltimore,
and a quantity of Northern papers they sent us. I
hate the Yankees more and more, every time I look at
one of their horrid newspapers and read the lies they
tell about us, while we have our mouths closed and
padlocked. The world will not hear our story, and
we must figure just as our enemies choose to paint us.
The pictures in "Harper's Weekly" and "Frank
Leslie's" tell more lies than Satan himself was ever
the father of. I get in such a rage when I look at them
that I sometimes take off my slipper and beat the senseless
paper with it. No words can express the wrath
of a Southerner on beholding pictures of President
Davis in woman's dress; and Lee, that star of light
before which even Washington's glory pales, crouching
on his knees before a beetle-browed image of "Columbia,"
suing for pardon! And these in the same
sheet with disgusting representations of the execution
of the so-called "conspirators" in Lincoln's assassination.
Nothing is sacred from their disgusting love of
the sensational. Even poor Harold's sisters, in their
last interview with him, are pictured for the public
delectation, in "Frank Leslie's." Andersonville, one
would think, was bad enough as it was, to satisfy them,
but no; they must lie even about that, and make it out
ten times worse than the reality - never realizing that
they themselves are the only ones to blame for the
horrors of that "prison pen," as they call it. They
were the ones that refused to exchange prisoners. Our

government could not defend its own cities nor feed
its own soldiers; how could it help crowding its prisoners
and giving them hard fare? I have seen both
Northern and Southern prisoners, and the traces of
more bitter suffering were shown in the pinched
features and half-naked bodies of the latter than appeared
to me even in the faces of the Andersonville
prisoners I used to pass last winter, on the cars. The
world is filled with tales of the horrors of Andersonville,
but never a word does it hear about Elmira and
Fort Delaware. The "Augusta Transcript" was
suppressed, and its editor imprisoned merely for publishing
the obituary of a Southern soldier, in which it
was stated that he died of disease "contracted in the
icy prisons of the North." Splendid monuments are
being reared to the Yankee dead, and the whole world
resounds with pæans because they overwhelmed us
with their big, plundering armies, while our Southern
dead lie unheeded on the fields where they fought so
bravely, and our real heroes, our noblest and best, the
glory of human nature, the grandest of God's works,
are defamed, vilified, spit upon. Oh! you brave unfortunates!
history will yet do you justice. Your
monuments are raised in the hearts of a people whose
love is stronger than fate, and they will see that your
memory does not perish. Let the enemy triumph;
they will only disgrace themselves in the eyes of all
decent people. They are so blind that they boast of
their own shame. They make pictures of the ruin of

our cities and exult in their work. They picture the
destitution of Southern homes and gloat over the desolation
they have made. "Harper's" goes so far as to
publish a picture of Kilpatrick's "foragers" in South-West
Georgia, displaying the plate and jewels they
have stolen from our homes! "Out of their own
mouths they are condemned," and they are so base
they do not even know that they are publishing their
own shame.

Aug. 22, Tuesday. - Charity and Mammy both sick,
and Emily preparing to leave. I don't think the poor
darkey wants to go, but mother never liked to have
her about the house, and father can't afford to keep
such a big family on his hands when he has no use for
them, though he says he will do all in his power to
keep them from suffering. Our circumstances are so
reduced that it is necessary to reduce our establishment
and retrench our expensive manner of living.
We have not even an errand boy now, for George, the
only child left on the place, besides Emily's gang, is
going to school! Sister and I do most of the housework
while Mammy and Charity are laid up. Sister
attended to the bedrooms this morning, while Mett
and I cleaned up downstairs and mother washed the
dishes. It is very different from having a servant always
at hand to attend to your smallest need, but I
can't say that I altogether regret the change; in fact,
I had a very merry time over my work. Jim Bryan
came in while I was sweeping the parlor, to invite

Garnett, Mett, and me to a party at his house. Then
came John Ficklen with Ella Daniel, now on a visit
to Minnie Evans, and Anna Robertson and Dr. Calhoun
dropped in later. I had my head tied up in a
veil to keep the dust off, and a linen apron round my
waist. They called me "Bridget" and laughed a
great deal at my blunders and ignorance, such as dusting
the top shelves first and flirting the trash behind
me as I swept. However, I will soon learn better, and
the rooms really did look very nice when I got through
with them. I never saw the parlor and library so
tidy. I was in high good humor at the result of my
labors, and the gentlemen complimented me on them.
I don't think I shall mind working at all when I get
used to it. Everybody else is doing housework, and it
is so funny to compare our experiences. Father says
this is what has made the Anglo-Saxon race great;
they are not afraid of work, and when put to the test,
never shirk anything that they know has got to be
done, no matter how disagreeable. But it does seem
to me a waste of time for people who are capable of
doing something better to spend their time sweeping
and dusting while scores of lazy negroes that are fit
for nothing else are lying around idle. Dr. Calhoun
suggested that it would be a good idea to import some
of those man-apes from Africa and teach them to take
the place of the negroes, but Henry said that just as
soon as we had got them tamed, and taught them to be
of some use, those crazy fanatics at the North would

insist on coming down here to emancipate them and
give them universal suffrage. A good many people
seem to think that the Yankees are never going
to be satisfied till they get the negroes to voting.
Father says it is the worst thing we have to fear now.

Mrs. Bryan's party was charming, though I was
too tired to enjoy the dancing as much as usual. Mrs.
Bryan gave us a splendid little supper - the second one
we have had this summer, besides the few given at our
house. Most of our entertainments are starvation
parties. We are too poor to have suppers often, but
when we do get one we enjoy it famously. Jim Bryan
and John Ficklen walked home with Metta and me.
It was nearly three o'clock before we got to bed, and
then we were both too tired to sleep. My legs ached
as if they had been in the stocks, but when I become
more accustomed to hard work, I hope it won't be so
bad. I think it is an advantage to clean up the house
ourselves, sometimes, for we do it so much better than
the negroes.

The children are having a great time. Cousin Mary
gave them a little party this evening, and they have
two or three every week. Julia is a famous belle
among the little boys.

Aug. 23, Wednesday. - Up very early, sweeping and
cleaning the house. Our establishment has been
reduced from 25 servants to 5, and two of these
are sick. Uncle Watson and Buck do the outdoor

work, or rather the small part of it that can be done
by two men. The yard, grove, orchards, vineyards,
and garden, already show sad evidences of neglect.
Grace does the washing and milks the cows, mammy
cooks, and Charity does part of the housework, when
well. Cora has hired Maum Rose, a nice old darkey
that used to belong to the Dunwodys, to wait on her,
and she is a great help to us. I worked very hard in
the morning because I had a great deal to do. I got
through by ten o'clock and was preparing for a nap
when Cousin Liza came in with some of our country
kin, and immediately after, Mrs. Jordan, with her
sister, two children and three servants, came to spend
the night. Other people came in to dinner - I counted
twenty at table. Charity was well enough to wait in
the dining-room, mammy and Emily did the cooking,
but Mett and I had the other work to do, besides looking
after all the company. I never was so tired in
my life; every bone in my body felt as if it were ready
to drop out, and my eyes were so heavy that I could
hardly keep them open. I don't find doing housework
quite so much of a joke as I imagined it was going to
be, especially when we have company to entertain at
the same time, and want to make them enjoy themselves.
By the way, Mrs. Jordan says I was right in
dusting the top shelves first, so the laugh is on the
other side. After dinner Mrs. Jordan and Mary Anderson
wanted to do some shopping, and then we went
to make some visits. On our return home we met

Dick and Emily, with their children, at the front gate,
going out to begin life for themselves. All their
worldly possessions, considerably increased by gifts of
poultry, meal, bacon, and other provisions - enough to
last them till they can make a start for themselves,
besides crockery and kitchen utensils that mother gave
them, had gone before in a wagon. Dick's voice
trembled as he bade me good-by, Emily could not
speak at all, and Cinthy cried as if her heart would
break. I felt very much like crying myself - it was
so pitiful. Poor little Sumter, who has been fed every
day of his life from father's own hand, as regularly
as old Toby from mine, was laughing in great glee,
little dreaming what is in store for him, I fear. Little
Charlotte, too, the baby, who always came to me for a
lump of sugar or a bit of cake whenever she saw me in
the kitchen, sat crowing in her mother's arms, and
laughed when she held out her little fat hand to tell me
good-by. Poor little creature, I wonder how long it
will be before her little shiny black face will be pinched
and ashy from want! If it hadn't been for the presence
of all those strangers, I should have broken down
and cried outright. Father took some silver change
out of his purse and placed it in the child's hand,
and I saw a tear trickle down his cheek as he
did so.

Dick has hired himself out to do stable work, and
has taken his family to live in a house out at Thompson's,
that den of iniquity. I am distressed about

Cinthy, exposed to such temptations, for they say it is
disgraceful the way those Yankee soldiers carry on
with the negro women. *

Altogether it has been a
sad, trying day, and as soon
as I could go to my room and be alone for awhile, I
sat on the edge of the bed and relieved myself by
taking a good cry, while Metta, like Rachael - refused
to be comforted. But we had not long to indulge our
feelings, for we had promised Minnie Evans to go to
a dance she was giving for Ella Daniel, and we always
stand by Minnie, though we would both a great deal
rather have stayed at home. I was so tired that I
made Jim Bryan tell the boys not to ask me to dance.
Mett and Kate Robertson were in the same plight, so
we hid off in a corner and called ourselves "the

broom-stick brigade." Kate is a splendid girl;
she takes to hard work as unmurmuringly as if she
had been used to it all her life, and always looks
stylish and pretty, in the face of broom-sticks and
dish-rags.

Aug. 24, Thursday. - I had to be up early and clean
up my room, though half-dead with fatigue. After
breakfast I went out again with Mrs. Jordan, and we
were almost suffocated by the dust. While we were
crossing the square I received a piece of politeness
from a Yankee, which astonished me so that I almost
lost my breath. He had a gang of negro vagrants
with balls and chains, sweeping the street in front of
their quarters. The dust flew frightfully, but we were
obliged to pass, and the Yankee ordered the sweeping
stopped till we were out of the way. I also saw Capt.
Cooley for the first time. His head was turned away,
so I took a good look at him, and his appearance was
not bad at all - that is, he would be a very good-looking
man in any other dress than that odious Yankee blue.
He is very anxious to visit some of the girls in Washington,
I hear, but says that he knows he would not be
received. He saw the Robertson girls pass his quarters
one day, and said to some men standing near:
"Oh, I wish I wasn't a Yankee!"

Our friends left soon after dinner. Mrs. Jordan
wanted Mett and me to go home with her and attend
a big country dance at old Mrs. Huling's. We would
like to go, but have no driver, and could not leave our

work at home - to say nothing of the state of our
wardrobes. I had no time to rest after dinner, being
obliged to take a long walk on business and having
neither carriage-driver nor errand-boy. I was so tired
at night that I went to bed as soon as I had eaten my
supper.

Aug. 25, Friday. - The Ficklens sent us some books
of fashion brought by Mr. Boyce from New York.
The styles are very pretty, but too expensive for us
broken-down Southerners. I intend always to dress
as well as my means will allow, but shall attempt nothing
in the way of finery so long as I have to sweep
floors and make up beds. It is more graceful and
more sensible to accept poverty as it comes than to
try to hide it under a flimsy covering of false appearances.
Nothing is more contemptible than broken-down
gentility trying to ape rich vulgarity - not even
rich vulgarity trying to ape its betters. For my part,
I am prouder of my poverty than I ever was of my
former prosperity, when I remember in what a noble
cause all was lost. We Southerners are the Faubourg
St. Germain of American society, and I feel, with perfect
sincerity, that my faded calico dress has a right
to look with scorn at the rich toilettes of our plunderers.
Notwithstanding all our trouble and wretchedness,
I thank Heaven that I was born a Southerner, -
that I belong to the noblest race on earth - for this is
a heritage that nothing can ever take from me. The
greatness of the Southern character is showing itself

beyond the mere accidents of time and fortune; though
reduced to the lowest state of poverty and subjection,
we can still feel that we are superior to those whom
brute force has placed above us in worldly state.
Solomon says: "Better is a living dog than a dead
lion," but I don't believe it, even if it is in the Bible. *Aug. 27, Sunday. - The
bolt has fallen. Mr.
Adams, the Methodist minister, launched the thunders
of the church against dancing, in his morning discourse.
Mr. Montgomery wanted to turn his guns on
us, too, but his elders spiked them. I could not help
being amused when Mr. Adams placed dancing in the
same category with bribery, gambling, drunkenness,
and murder. He fell hard upon wicked Achan, who
caused Israel to sin, and I saw some of the good
brethren on the "amen" benches turn their eyes upon
me. I was sitting near the pulpit, under full fire, and
half-expected to hear him call me "Jezabel," but I suppose
he is reserving his heavy ammunition for the
grand attack he is going to make next Sunday. The
country preachers have been attacking us, too, from all

quarters. I understand that some of them have given
Washington over to destruction, and the country people
call it "Sodom." I thought I should die laughing
when I first heard of this name being applied to our
quiet, innocent little village - though it might not have
been such a misnomer when the "righteous Lot" was
in our midst. It is a pity that good, pious people, as
some of these preachers undoubtedly are, should be so
blinded by prejudice. I wish we had an Episcopal
Church established here to serve as a refuge for the
many worthy people who are not gamblers and murderers,
but who like to indulge in a little dancing now
and then.

Aug. 29, Tuesday. - ...Capt. Cooley is to
be removed and Washington is to have a new commander.
Everybody regrets it deeply, and the gentlemen
proposed getting up a petition to have him retained,
but finally concluded that any such proceeding
would only render his removal the more certain. I do
not know the name of our new master, but they say
he is drunk most of the time, and his men are the ones
that acted so badly in the case of Mr. Rhodes, near
Greensborough. One of Mr. Rhodes's "freedmen"
lurked in the woods around his plantation, committing
such depredations that finally he appealed to the garrison
at Greensborough for protection. The commandant
ordered him to arrest the negro and bring him to
Greensborough for trial. With the assistance of some
neighboring planters, Mr. Rhodes succeeded in making

the arrest, late one evening. He kept the culprit at his
house that night, intending to take him to town next
day, but in the meantime, a body of negroes marched
to the village and informed the officer that Mr. Rhodes
and his friends were making ready to kill their prisoner
at midnight. A party of bluecoats was at once
dispatched to the Rhodes plantation, where they arrived
after the family had gone to bed. Without
waiting for admission, they fired two shots into the
house, one of which killed Mrs. Rhodes's brother.
They left her alone with the dead man, on a plantation
full of insolent negroes, taking the rest of the men
to Greensborough, where the Yankees and negroes
united in swearing that the Rhodes party had fired
upon them. Mr. Rhodes was carried to Augusta, and
on the point of being hanged, when a hitch in the evidence
saved his life. The Yankees themselves confessed
to having fired two shots, of which the dead
man, and a bullet lodged in the wall, were proof positive.
But the negroes, not knowing the importance of
their admission (for want of being properly coached,
no doubt) gave evidence that only two shots in all had
been fired. When they found that it went against
them, the Yankees tried to throw out the negro evidence
altogether, but here Miss Columbia's passion for
her black paramour balked them. Mr. Rhodes's life
was saved, but his property was confiscated - when
did a Yankee ever lose sight of the plunder? - while
the wretch who shot his brother-in-law was merely

CONCLUSION

HERE the record ends,
amid the gloom and desolation
of defeat - a gloom that was to be followed ere
long by the still blacker darkness of Reconstruction.
Yet, I would not have the reader draw from its pages
a message of despair, but of hope and courage under
difficulties; for disaster cheerfully borne and honorably
overcome, is not a tragedy, but a triumph. And
this, the most glorious of all conquests, belongs to the
South. Never in all history, has any people recovered
itself so completely from calamity so overwhelming.
By the abolition of slavery alone four thousand millions
worth of property were wiped out of existence.
As many millions more went up in the smoke and ruin
of war; while to count in money the cost of the
precious lives that were sacrificed, would be, I will not
say an impossibility, but a desecration.

I do not recall these things in a spirit of bitterness
or repining, but with a feeling of just pride that I
belong to a race which has shown itself capable of
rising superior to such conditions. We, on this side of
the line, have long since forgiven the war and its inevitable
hardships. We challenged the fight, and if
we got more of it in the end than we liked, there was
nothing for it but to stand up like men and take our

medicine without whimpering. It was the hand that
struck us after we were down that bore hardest; yet
even its iron weight was not enough to break the spirit
of a people in whom the Anglo-Saxon blood of our
fathers still flows uncontaminated; and when the insatiable
crew of the carpet-baggers fell upon us to
devour the last meager remnants left us by the spoliation
of war, they were met by the ghostly bands of
"The Invisible Empire," who through secret vigilance
and masterful strategy saved the civilization they were
forbidden to defend by open force.

To conquer fate is a greater victory than to conquer
in battle, and to conquer under such handicaps as were
imposed on the South is more than a victory; it is a
triumph. Forced against our will, and against the
simplest biological and ethnological laws, into an unnatural
political marriage that has brought forth as its
monstrous offspring a race problem in comparison with
which the Cretan Minotaur was a suckling calf; robbed
of the last pitiful resource the destitution of war had
left us, by a prohibitory tax on cotton, our sole commercial
product; discriminated against for half a century
by a predatory tariff that mulcts us at every turn,
from the cradle to the grave; giving millions out of
our poverty to educate the negro, and contributing millions
more to reward the patriotism of our conquerors,
whose imperishable multitudes as revealed by the pension
rolls, make the four-year resistance of our thin
gray bands one of the miracles of history; yet, in spite

of all this, and in spite of the fact that the path of our
progress has been a thorny one, marked by many an
unwritten tragedy of those who went down in the
struggle, too old, or too deeply rooted in the past to
adapt themselves to new conditions, we have, as a people,
come up out of the depths stronger and wiser for
our battle with adversity, and the land we love has
lifted herself from the Valley of Humiliation to a pinnacle
of prosperity that is the wonder of more favored
sections.

And so, after all, our tale of disaster is but the prelude
to a triumph in which one may justly glory without
being accused of vainglory. It is good to feel that
you belong to a people that you have a right to be
proud of; it is good to feel coursing in your veins the
blood of a race that has left its impress on the civilization
of the world wherever the Anglo-Saxon has set
his foot. And to us, who bore the storm and stress
and the tragedy of those dark days, it is good to remember
that if the sun which set in blood and ashes
over the hills of Appomattox has risen again in splendor
on the smiling prospect of a New South, it is because
the foundations of its success were laid in the
courage and steadfastness and hopefulness of a generation
who in the darkest days of disaster, did not
despair of their country.